The Tundra of Arda
by The Phantom
Summary: Lord of the Rings as you've never seen it before... Wolves. When the Great Hunter rises in the East, can the packs find the strength to fight? ***COMPLETE with EPILOGUE***
1. Lorien, Gondor, Imladris, and Elrond the...

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: I've seen plenty of people rewriting 'LOTR', whether with characters of their own added in or simply with more amusing subplots. But never have I seen it written like this before…

For this story, you have to let go anything you ever knew about the characters. They are no longer what they were. They are wolves. Therefore, they speak like wolves, hunt like wolves, and act like wolves, with alphas and packs and territories. I've altered some ages (Merry is older than Frodo, for instance) and some relations (Eowyn and Eomer are now the pups of Theoden), but otherwise I've kept most of it the same.

Some of the hierarchies are different, but bear with me. This old tactician has a plan, and it will unfold in due time. 

Middle-earth is now great wide tundra on which these packs run free. A shadow rises in the East… and they will unite or they will fall.

The Tundra of Arda

            Wind stole along the wide tundra, giving flight to the birds and whispering through the grasses. It danced along through the caribou, the mighty beasts lowing and rumbling as they moved. It swirled around the little wolverines as they scuttled along the ground. And it crested a hill, playing at the ruffs of the rulers of the tundra.

            Wolves.

            The Gondor pack sat on the top of the hill, looking down with sharp eyes at the arctic deer below. Searching. Scouring the herd for a weakness. Or, more accurately, a weak animal. Their next meal.

            The alpha male, Denethor, lifted his nose to the wind. He inhaled deeply the scent of the herd, testing it on the air. He was an older wolf, but still hale, with fur that was a muddy brown. Many a battle he'd fought to keep his position as the alpha. And long and hard had he feuded with the other packs for his territory.

            Not that it was prime turf. Indeed, the land of the Gondor pack bordered closely, almost too closely, Mordor, land of the hunters. Not a particularly envious place to be. And yet the stubborn pride that ran in his blood kept Denethor and, consequently, his pack, in their home ground.

            Rising next to his father was Boromir. Pride of the Gondor pack, he was tall and powerful, rich brown fur shining with health and vigor. His mother had been slain by Sauron, the Great Hunter, long ago, leaving the pack without any alpha female. But they were capable. 

            The young wolf Faramir was Boromir's brother. He was smaller, and with fur that was a more light brown color, like the dust kicked up by his swift feet. He was a scout and a runner, patrolling the borders constantly. 

            Beregond, the beta and second in charge, was relaxing on the ground. He did not particularly like hunting. In fact, he'd rather have been napping with his tail curled up around him. But Denethor was insistent, and the alpha. Beregond had no choice but to obey.

            Sulking at the base of the hill and separated from the rest was the grey wolf Aragorn, the bottom of the food chain. Once, he'd been the beta, fully prepared to take over the pack and lead. But he had a wandering need in him, and departed to visit other places. Upon his return, he found Beregond firmly rooted in his place. Denethor looked down on him, and Boromir loathed him. The only reason the pack kept him around was for his impressive tracking skills, leading them to the caribou from miles away.

            The air tingled with electricity. The caribou, as if sensing danger, quickened their pace. Boromir's mighty shoulders tensed. And suddenly, Denethor gave the quick bark that sent them all flying, down onto the plain and amongst the caribou.

            They moved like the wind, gliding over the land almost without touching it. Their proud tails lifted like flags, and their sleek bodies pressed to the earth for speed.

            Faramir sliced into the herd, splitting off the caribou he'd selected. Old and weak, the animal stumbled away from him and, unknowingly, towards the pack.

            Boromir was racing in for the killing blow. But Aragorn put on a burst of speed and cut him off, leaping in and gripping the beast's jugular. 

            The caribou was dead. But that was not the end of the trouble. Raising his ruff angrily, Boromir rumbled a threatening growl that said 'I am in charge'. Aragorn had made the kill, therefore attempting to raise himself to a higher position. That behavior could be accepted. 

            Again, Boromir thundered the command 'Know your place'. Lunging, Aragorn snapped at him, but the larger male was too quick. The teeth clacked shut on thin air. Suddenly submissive, Aragorn cowered to the ground. Satisfied, Boromir turned to the kill.

            Denethor ate first, preserving his rights as the alpha. Beregond followed, and then the brothers. Aragorn was forced to wait his turn, his tail stiff and bristling with indignation. 

            And then a call split the air.

            Immediately, the pack was on edge. It was the call of the Lorien pack, coming from near the Northern border. They were close. Too close. Close enough to possibly be on Gondor territory.

            Denethor threw back his head and howled, bellowing his authority and telling them to stay away. Boromir sang as well, his voice ringing with threat. Beregond and Faramir took up the call, each giving their warnings. Still stinging from his reprimand, Aragorn remained silent. 

            But the Lorien wolves sounded again, and they were far too near for comfort.

            The Gondor pack had just eaten, and was forced to trot slowly to the border and turn away, not for the first time, the trespassers.

            ~

            Aragorn's keen, albeit reluctant assistance in the tracking department led them to a small ravine. Across the lip of the gap and standing tall was the Lorien pack.

            In the tundra of Arda, there were Numenor packs and Elven packs. The packs of Numenor descent were strong, with short powerful legs and broad shoulders. But the Elven packs were tall and lithe, with long graceful legs and slender bodies. And of course, all the Elven packs had the noticeable ears, longer and upswept for finer hearing. 

            Elven wolves and Numenor wolves despised each other. Constantly fighting for land, they taunted and howled at one another and often pulled bold maneuvers like the Lorien pack was at that moment.

            Standing at the head of the pack was Celeborn, the alpha, and next to him the alpha female, Galadriel. Behind them stood Rumil and Orophin. All had their tails raised in defiance, and Celeborn arched his neck proudly.

            They were well into Gondor territory.

            With a snarl, Denethor ordered them to leave. Celeborn barked a haughty 'no'.

            Suddenly, Boromir was thrown to the ground with a yelp, and a tawny form raced past them and over the edge of the gully, making the incredible leap to rejoin his pack. 

            Haldir. Infamous for his arrogance, Haldir was cunning and swift; able to make jumps like the one he'd just landed. But his weakness was his cockiness, and he was prone to daring escapades like sneaking onto foreign territory.

            He stood smirking at the Gondor pack, tipped back his head and howled a challenge. What he hadn't counted on was the pack surging forward into the ravine and racing up towards them, fully ready to kill.

            Sensing the anger and danger coming towards him, Celeborn called his pack away and back towards their land. No time for fights now.

            ~

            The Lorien pack continued on through their land, not stopping to rest. They could run for long periods of time, sometimes just for fun, and sometimes because it was absolutely necessary. At the moment, they were just running for the joy of it.

            Haldir raced along, his ruff blowing in the breeze and his tail lifted like a banner. He considered the showdown with the Gondor pack a victory, simply because he'd given Boromir a good trouncing. 

            Meanwhile, Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged worried looks. Both of them realized that Haldir was getting too confident for his own good. At a nod from his mate, Celeborn darted forward to run alongside his beta. Abruptly and without warning, he gave Haldir a hard nudge that knocked him off his feet.

            Before the beta could regain his footing, Celeborn was on top of him, pinning him to the snowy ground. Haldir writhed under Celeborn's weight, not in the mood to be disciplined. But the larger wolf remained that way, so finally he relented with a whimper.

            As soon as he admitted his inferiority, Celeborn pulled away. The pack continued on, with the alpha male and female at the front, and the very humbled beta bringing up the rear.

            ~

            They'd been traveling for three days when they heard the familiar song of kin.

            Glorfindel's rich voice drifted through the air, joined by the rest of the Imladris pack. They were on Lorien borders, and howled their greeting to the other pack. Celeborn sang back, and the two packs harmonized in the twilight. Then all voices silenced, save Glorfindel and Celeborn. They spoke at length, talking of the hunting and the weather. Finally, Celeborn suggested a meeting place.

            Overjoyed at seeing their fellow Elven wolves, Haldir, Rumil, and Orophin pranced about like puppies, tails wagging with excitement. Galadriel watched with a smile, showing her pearly fangs. 

            In mere hours (Haldir had upped the pace to get there faster), the two packs met on the neutral ground between their territories.  The younger wolves bowled into each other, tussling on the ground exuberantly. Celeborn and Glorfindel approached each other and rubbed their bodies together in greeting. Glorfindel repeated the gesture with Galadriel. 

            Rumil had just gotten a really good hold on Galdor's ears when Galadriel commanded them to part. She wanted to see how the pups had grown, particularly…

            Arwen had grown quite a bit, indeed. Now she was as stunning as the evening star, her raven dark fur glistening in the moonlight. Sparkling green eyes shone from her face, and her body was slim and strong.  

            Elladan and Elrohir were cream-colored; their coats dirty from rolling on the ground in play fights. They fought for 'dominance' constantly, each vying for the role of alpha pup. 

            The alpha female of the Lorien wolves examined them fondly. They were her grand-pups, by her daughter Celebrian, who had been killed by the Great Hunter shortly after their birth. Out of the goodness of his heart, Glorfindel had raised the pups, taking them in when few would. For their blood was a disgrace…

            As if on cue, a wavering, mournful howl filled the air. Instantly, all of Haldir's fur bristled, his lips curling into a snarl. The alphas turned a wary eye to the north, where the approaching wolf was nearing.

            It was Elrond, the loner. He had heard the singing of his kin and sought them out for not the first time. He crawled towards them, belly near the ground, ears flattened against his head, and tail tucked between his legs. Pleading whimpers rose from his throat as he inched towards the three alphas that stood, stiff and cold.

            The black wolf reached their feet and rolled over onto his back, his paws in the air. The message was clear.

            'Take me in. I will be the lowest of low. Just give me a family. Please.'

            Celeborn and Glorfindel looked to Galadriel. It was her decision. After all, it was her daughter that run off and mated with this loner, and she should be the one who decided whether they would welcome him.

            She looked away.

            At the signal, Glorfindel dove forward and seized Elrond by the throat, not killing but gripping tight enough to be a warning. Whining, the black wolf begged again to be admitted. But Glorfindel tossed him aside, snarling viciously.

            Slinking away, Elrond paused near the pups. His pups. He whimpered a soft call, 'come with me'. But they did not recognize him, and only cocked their heads in confusion.

            Defeated, Elrond disappeared into the night, while the Elven packs behind him continued their reunion.  

            ~

            He was doomed to a life of wandering.

            Elrond the Loner, as was his name, had come across the title quite accidentally.

            He'd been born.

            His mother had been of the Elven race. But his father had been a Numenor. Their mating had been catastrophic, so they'd escaped to start their own pack. One pup was born to them before the Great Hunter killed them. And so their troubles were over.

            But their pup was alone.

            Elrond was shunned by all packs in Arda. None of the Numenors would accept him on account of his Elven half. And yet his Numenor blood kept him from the Elven. 

            And so he wandered the tundra, always seeking acceptance and finding none. He longed for the company of his brethren, either Numenor or Elven. No such good fortune. He roamed in the no-wolf's zone, the long alleys of land between territories that were considered neutral. The turf was forbidden; only relatives or adolescents seeking a new pack could cross it.

            And of course, Elrond the Loner.

            He stole along in the moonlight, his soft whimpers echoing in the silence as he talked to himself. Finding no food and seeing no reason to stop, he continued on till morning.

            And it was by daylight that he was at last visited. 

            Company came swooping down suddenly and quite unexpectedly from the sky and landed right on his back. 

            It was Gandalf, the mighty eagle. He was the guardian of the tundra of Arda, and so was the only living soul who cared about Elrond. In fact, the two were very good friends, often traveling together for long distances.

            The wolf nuzzled his feathered companion affectionately. He enjoyed Gandalf's companionship; and though Elrond spoke the tongue of the wolves and the eagle spoke his own language, it didn't matter. For their minds were so great that they could communicate by thought.

            -How goes it, wolf friend?-

            -Specify.-

            -Your kinsmen?-

            -Cold as ever.-

            -A shame. As much as I would like to sympathize, that is not the reason I came.-

            -You sense it too?-

            -A great Evil arises in the East…-

~ To Be Continued 

Author's Notes: This first chapter is kind of testing the waters. Let me know what you think, and I'll post more. 


	2. Mirkwood, Rohan, Shire and the Shadow Ar...

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to all who have shown interest in my story. In answer to Amarth: I regret to say that the Dwarves will not be making an appearance. I simply did not know enough about them nor very many of their names to form a pack. Perhaps I'll make them wolverines. And as for the Hobbits… read on.

This chapter isn't as long as the first. Sorry! I had to stop, or else the chapter never would have ended. Hopefully the advancement of the plot will make up for it's short length. 

Things are getting deeper as the story unravels and the threat is made clear…

Chapter Two

In the northeast, a cold wind was biting across the tundra. It struck unmercifully against the two wolves huddled against its' chill.

            Thranduil and Legolas. The only surviving members of the Mirkwood pack. Famine had ravaged their land for years, slowly killing out the weaker wolves, until only the alpha and his son survived. 

            Both were of the tawny, blonde fur color, with bodies that were too thin, weakened by the lack of food. Legolas had once been a pup famed for his speed; now, he was tethered by the duties of beta to his father. 

            Survival was their only objective.

            Presently, when the wind wasn't snapping so hard, Legolas rose and paced about. His large ears swiveled back and forth, his nostrils quivering. He sensed a danger, a threat, but could not quite place it.

            Old Thranduil rose and sensed his son's nervousness. He nuzzled the younger wolf, telling him to calm down. But Legolas paid no heed.

            Not only did he sense some unknown threat, he had long ceased to be a calm and collected wolf. At times driven mad by hunger, he still pined for the loss of his family and stared into the bleak abyss of his future. There was little hope for the Mirkwood pack. 

            And still, the shadow taunted him, teasing him and daring him to fight it…

            ~

To the south, another pack was restless. They, too, were small in number. And they, too, had a member who sensed danger.

            Young Eowyn of the Rohan pack was jumpy. She walked up and down the sleeping area, tossing her head and whimpering. Her brother Eomer tried to calm her, but to no avail.

            The alpha, Theoden, rested his weary head on his paws. He was getting older, and Eomer was not yet ready to take over the pack. The young male was strong and smart, this was true. But one obstacle remained in his way…

             A little distance off sat the beta. Wormtongue. Long-limbed and dark grey, he glared from his slit yellow eyes at Eomer from where he was. It was painfully obvious to Theoden that Wormtongue expected to lead the pack at the old alpha's passing. But it was not be. Eomer was far more suited to being a leader. 

            But if he made Eomer the alpha… Wormtongue would surely fight him for dominance. And the young male was by no means ready for that. It took a powerful and experienced alpha, like Theoden, to keep unruly wolves like Wormtongue in their place.

            And still the young female Eowyn paced, turning her gaze towards the East.

            ~

            And far off in the West, all was peaceful. 

            It was a lush green land, overflowing with partridges and ground squirrels, foxes and lemmings. Plenty to eat. No famine. And a pleasant wind that brought rain for the earth, and snow in the winter.

            The land of the Shire pack.

            Hobbit wolves are much smaller than either Elven or Numenor wolves. They are gentle and good-natured, with round little bellies, short stubby legs, and fine curly fur. They fight only when in danger of their lives, if then. Most of all, they know almost nothing of the world beyond their territory.

            For the Shire pack's land is separated from the rest by the icy River Brandywine. Few cross it, and it is a virtually impassable barrier, one that guards the Hobbit wolves from the anger and hatred outside.

            On a fair green hill the pack rested. The old alpha, Bilbo, dozed in a contented heap of brown fur. He was aged, but did not fear for his leadership, for he was also wise and knowing. He had lost his mate the year before shortly after she had her pups, but she had died a peaceful and natural death. Almost asleep, Bilbo still kept one eye on the activity below.

            Merry, the headstrong beta, was romping in the grass with the pups. He himself was only a little older than they, having risen to his position through his strength. He all but led the pack, looking to Bilbo for guidance occasionally but mostly playing the role of alpha. 

            The other pups adored him. The two youngest, Pippin and Frodo, were particularly fond of tussling with the beta. Pippin was a bit too curious for his own good occasionally, and it often fell on Merry's shoulders to keep an eye on him. Frodo, in the meantime, was the sweetest pup that Bilbo could remember in a long time, with wide blue eyes that were a rarity among wolves. 

            Pippin was currently in the process of pinning Merry, who was a deal larger than him but still played along, when Frodo bowled him over entirely. His quarry lost, Pippin turned his attention on the other pup and chewing his ears. Merry tackled them both, and they turned over and over in a pile of furry legs and paws.

            From the sidelines, Sam watched. He was a bulky little wolf, stout in body and heart. He preferred not to tussle, seeing as he was a bit too large for the pups and hadn't Merry's gentle touch. Instead, he watched, his mouth hanging open in a happy grin that showed his fangs. 

            Old Gaffer, the senior member of the pack, ambled lazily up the hill and flopped down next to Bilbo for a nap. 

            And Rosie, the pack's female, had her pretty brown eyes fixed on Sam, who watched the pups unaware. 

            All was peaceful and serene, as the paradise of the Shire territory remained undiscovered.

            ~

            It was only a matter of time till the dam broke. And when it did, it came with dire consequences.

            The Gondor pack had split up for a hunt, lazily patrolling their tundra, when a gunshot shattered the air.

            Boromir threw himself to the ground in terror, having only heard that sound in connection with the death of his mother. A few feet away, Aragorn crouched low to the ground to make himself a smaller target. He knew of guns and their dangers, and was not so blindly afraid.

            Denethor and Faramir also huddled together, ears rotating to listen for any sign of danger. But Beregond was nowhere to be found.

            Not even an hour later, the pack stumbled across their beta, his body stretched out grotesquely in the snow. A black stain was spread across his chest… the stain of the Great Hunter. 

            The alpha yelped in alarm, telling the pack to stay back. They stared at their fallen companion in shock for a while, Faramir pacing back and forth nervously. Denethor's ears strained, and he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. With a cry, the Gondor pack fled.

            ~

            Celeborn was startled awake in the middle of the night by the gut-wrenching wails of grief. It was the call of mourning. He got to his feet and listened.

            The Gondor pack was howling in agony, telling of loss and death. 

            Counting the voices, Celeborn realized that Beregond, the beta, was not singing.

            Galadriel woke and listened, her eyes clouding with sorrow. Though she did not like the Gondor pack, it was heart-rending to hear their song. 

            Suddenly, the voices ceased and Denethor sang alone. The message was horrifying:

            'Beware. The Great Hunter is on the prowl.'

~ To Be Continued 


	3. Crossing the River

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to all the people who have reviewed so far. Particularly the authors; I believe you know how vital it is to receive encouragement. 

            Chapter Three

            The Lorien pack passed the warning onward, their voices trembling with fear.

            It was heard by the Imladris pack, which joined in with the call. 

            It reached the ears of the Rohan pack and the Mirkwood pack at the same time. 

            Five packs sang of terror and destruction, as the Great Hunter was unleashed once more.

            And far across the River Brandywine, it was received…

            ~

            Merry stood alert and trembling. It was the middle of the night, the moon cresting high in the sky. All about him, the pack slept. The pups were heaped together, Bilbo and Gaffer were dozing near each other, and Sam and Rosie were in a huddle of warmth. So peaceful. And yet something was terribly wrong. 

            Straining his ears, the young wolf leaned into the darkness. He heard the call of warning. Could it be? Were there other packs beyond the River? Apparently so, and they were in danger. 

            A little nose nuzzled his foreleg, and he jumped.

            It was Frodo, his big blue eyes shining eerily in the dark. Long had the pup proven his uncanny ability to sense trouble and sorrow, and tonight was no exception. He stood by Merry, mimicking the elder's alert position, and listened. He did not hear the call, but he sensed it. Something was wrong.

            Not wanting to get the pup concerned, the beta scooped Frodo up by the scruff of his neck and carried him back to where Pippin slept, setting him down next to his sleep mate. The pup settled down a bit reluctantly, but was soon asleep again.

            Merry trotted over to Bilbo and nudged him awake. In silence, the alpha rose and stood, listening to the wind. He could not hear the warning. Insistent, Merry loped off to investigate. Bilbo barked a note of caution, and Merry yipped back to acknowledge.

            ~

            He reached the River Brandywine in two days. Standing on the edge, he studied the icy waters apprehensively. He'd been scarcely aware of the River's presence, seeing as no Hobbit wolf had ventured this far in years. This was a barrier he hadn't anticipated.

            Throwing back his head, he called for anyone that might hear him. Again and again he howled, his unusual Hobbit wolf voice quavering pleasantly. Hobbit wolves, while not quite the singers the Elven wolves were, still had lovely voices when they sang.

            And suddenly, someone howled back.

            Merry's jaw clamped shut so quickly in surprise he almost bit his tongue. Someone else was out there!

            And suddenly, through the mists on the other side of the bank, a massive black wolf appeared. He was tall but thin, his green eyes staring impassively at the little wolf on the opposite shore. On his back sat a large eagle.

            Quite unexpectedly, the great animal plunged into the River Brandywine and swam easily across, reaching the other bank and shaking the moisture from his coat. 

            Merry stared up at this newcomer, hardly believing his eyes. He was the largest wolf in the Shire pack, and this male was almost double his size. Suddenly, it occurred to him that this wolf might be dangerous.

            He was about to run when the black wolf reached down and affectionately nuzzled him, tail relaxed out to show that he was a friend. The little wolf nuzzled back, relieved to have found an ally and not an enemy.

            The wolf was Elrond, guided by Gandalf to this forgotten bank in order to seek assistance. For only these good-natured little wolves would actually think about the betterment of the world, and not simply their own pack.

            ~

            Elrond was welcomed into the Shire pack's territory openly. The pups raced in and out under his slender legs, and Rosie nuzzled his chest, as it was only place she could reach. Sam and Gaffer came forward and rubbed his legs respectfully, and Bilbo stood resolutely before him until he lowered his head to be rubbed. An alpha does not rub a stranger in greeting anywhere but the head, which Elrond realized after the old wolf had stared at him meaningfully for a moment.

            He lounged on the flowery hill with the Hobbit wolves, joining them in their elevensies, and, shortly after, lunch. The food was plentiful here, he realized, and he wondered about telling the remaining Mirkwood wolves about it.

            But presently Gandalf seized his ear in his pointed beak and shook, reminding him of why he was here in the first place. Elrond gathered the Hobbit wolves before him in a semi-circle, that all may look into his eyes and hear his voice.

            -Gentle little wolves, I come to you now in a desperate hour…-

            ~

            When Elrond finished, all was silent.

 Merry left the pack and paced by himself, thinking. Not only had he recently learned that there were many other packs besides his own, he now knew that his beloved tundra was in dire peril by a Great Hunter.    

             Presently he returned to the pack and went immediately to Elrond's side. He rubbed alongside the larger wolf and growled softly. His actions spoke clearly:

            'I will go with you. I will fight with you.'

            Sam came up to Merry and repeated the gesture, signaling his desire to follow his beta.

            And suddenly, Pippin and Frodo tumbled forward, each fighting over who would go first. They settled the difference by each taking a different side of Merry, rubbing him with their bodies and growling in their little voices.

            Merry looked to Bilbo, who nodded sagely. He knew the pups could handle this. Pippin had iron courage within, although he could occasionally be trouble. And Frodo… there was no doubt that Frodo was meant for this Quest. 

            There were farewell rubs all around. Rosie came up to Sam and nuzzled him under the chin, and then ran her tongue along his neck. It was the language for 'You are my leader, and a very good one'. If wolves could blush, Sam would've turned bright red.

            Merry submissively nuzzled Bilbo under the chin, acknowledging his stance as alpha. Gaffer gave each of the pups a rough lick on top of the head, sending them sprawling. 

            Eventually the goodbyes could be stretched out no longer. Turning towards the East, Elrond led the newly formed Pack of the Quest towards their journey.

            ~

            It was Elrohir and Elladan that sensed them coming.

            They came flying back towards the pack from a routine patrol, tongues lolling from their mouths in exhaustion.

            Someone was on Imladris territory. A veritable pack of four, maybe five. 

            Instantly Glorfindel was on the alert. He rubbed against his pack, spreading his scent and mingling it with his own. When all had mixed together, it was a scent that distinctly said 'Imladris'. Wearing it like a banner, they raced off to meet the intruders.

            Never in a thousand years had Glorfindel ever expected it to be this.

            Elrond the Loner. The first shocking news was that he was not alone. But the most surprising: he was about halfway through Imladris territory, as if he were crossing it. And in all his years, he had never pulled such and unbelievable stunt.

            The alpha of the Imladris pack stared long and hard at Elrond. He seemed larger now, stronger and more confident. In truth, he was larger than Glorfindel had realized, for Elrond had always moved close to the ground. And yet now he was holding himself like an alpha. 

            His followers numbered four; a group of wolves so small the likes of which the Imladris pack had never seen before. One among them moved like a warrior, but the others couldn't be more than pups. 

            Glorfindel opened his mouth to snarl and demand their reason for trespassing. And then looking in Elrond's eyes, he suddenly knew.

            The ragtag bunch was going to face the Great Hunter.

            Snorting, Glorfindel ordered them off his turf. But Elrond stood like a statue. Raising his hackles, the alpha advanced at this insolence, but then something even more shocking happened.

            A great eagle swooped from the sky and landed neatly on Elrond's back.

            He was recognized at once as Gandalf, spirit of the tundra, and then Glorfindel realized this Quest was not in folly.

            Elrond walked calmly into the Imladris pack and circled off Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen into his pack. He was claiming them as his own, and the Imladris alpha was powerless to stop it.

            Snarling defiantly, Elladan and Elrohir loped back to their former leader.

            But Arwen stared at Elrond, who stared right back into her eyes, and she knew then that this was where she belonged. Ignoring her brothers' whimpers of protest, she went and stood behind her new alpha.

            Walking past Glorfindel, Elrond's body language was simple:

            'Leave us be and we will pass through your land and cause no harm.'

            The Imladris pack could only watch agape as the once-cowering wolf led his growing following away and out of sight.

~ To Be Continued 


	4. The Forming of the Pack

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Responding to some of my reviewers:

Amarth – I specified this in the first chapter, but I'll clarify. I've changed some of the ages of the characters around a little. Merry and Sam are young adults, and Pippin and Frodo are the pups. I wanted Merry to be in charge, but wolf law dictates that the older Frodo would have been the first in line. So I altered that a bit, and played off Frodo's innocence to bring him to the puppy level. :D 

Cudae – Thanks a million for the raving and praising reviews! Woo! 

TK – I'm sorry, Frodo is not available for adoption until the end of the story. :P

Enough babbling! On to the next chapter! 

Chapter Four

~

            In Mirkwood territory, the wind sighed.

            Legolas awoke in the middle of the night with a yelp, gazing around in a nameless fear he did not understand. Confused and disoriented, he felt a call deep within summoning him to the South.

            Trotting over to his father, he nudged the old wolf once.

            Cold.

            Thranduil, weakened by starvation, had succumbed to death's welcome peace.

            The agonized howls of the young wolf echoed in the air, though no one was near enough to hear his grief.

            After a while, he realized what he must do. No ties now held him to this land. A shadow grew in the East. And the call was growing stronger.

            Licking his father on the ear one last time, Legolas set off at an easy run for the South.

            ~

            In the Southeast, sorrow reigned.

            Faramir was listless, lying about uselessly and staring at the sky, occasionally lifting his voice in the call for Beregond. But the beta did not answer; his spirit had already flown out onto the tundra to dwell all around them, and could not hear the young wolf's song.

            The alpha Denethor also mourned, but for different reasons. Beregond had been a strong beta, very useful and smart. With his passing he left a gaping hole in the pack's structure… and that was where the trouble began.

            Boromir and Aragorn circled each other, hackles raised to appear twice as large and teeth bared. The fight for beta position had begun, Denethor could only hope it ended without too much bloodshed. 

            Darting in, Aragorn tried to get his paw up on the other wolf's back, forcing him to the ground and the 'surrender' position. But with a twist, Boromir shook him off and grabbed that paw in his teeth, yanking Aragorn forwards but not off his balance. 

            The two resumed circling, each trying to keep his head higher than the other. Body stance is very important for an alpha; the wolf with his head the highest is always in charge and always wins. 

            They were both startled from the fight by a lone call.

            It was a voice the Gondor pack had never heard before. Youthful and strong, a male was calling for others to join his new pack.

            A new pack had not been formed in Arda for a long time. The old territories and bloodlines ran deep, for many years. But generations ago, such a thing had happened when a small group of adolescents broke off from the Gondor pack and formed the pack of Rohan. 

            It was an opportunity.

            Seeing no future for himself here, Aragorn shrugged his massive shoulders and loped off in the direction of the voice, calling back that he was on his way. But seeing a chance to try and bring the adolescent into his own pack, Boromir followed.

            ~

            The song led them to Imladris territory, and they stopped. Surely, the voice calling them could not be Elven? A joke of Haldir's, perhaps? But no, they knew his voice countless times over. 

            Trotting towards them in the no-wolf zone was a young male wolf who was incredibly small. He had the proportions and physical characteristics of a young adult, but was about the size of a pup.

            The little wolf barked again, inviting them into the no-wolf space. With an invitation, they were allowed in and entered.

            Suddenly, rising up on a hill nearby was a huge black wolf and three other little wolves. After a moment, the two recognized the larger wolf as Elrond. 

            Elrond the Loner was starting his own pack?

            The very notion was absurd, for who would take him in? And yet surely these smaller wolves were from a pack that none had seen before. 

            Elrond advanced towards the two Gondorian wolves and looked into their eyes, telling them exactly what would be expected of them and where they would go.

            Memories of Beregond's body bleeding into the earth sprang to their minds, and without any second thoughts or doubts the two males joined the pack.

            And suddenly a second full-sized wolf came trotting over the hill, her raven fur shining in the sun like a star escaped from the night sky. Instantly, Aragorn was captivated by her, and moved towards the female with his ears lowered and his tail relaxed in the gesture of friendship.

            Arwen herself had been staring at the large grey male as he conversed with Elrond, noting his powerful frame and rippling muscles. He would make a good mate, liable to produce many strong and healthy pups. 

            They met, their noses rubbing together gently, and both were struck with a sensation that they had not known in their own packs: love.

            Elrond was about to interrupt when something quite unexpected happened. A new voice, one he had not planned on, sounded from the North.

            And suddenly the lean and fair Legolas of the Mirkwood pack came racing towards them from over the crest of a hill, his pace sure and steady and his intents clear: Joining this pack. His scent flag told them that the alpha Thranduil had passed, and he was the sole surviving member of his pack.

            Curious as to how Legolas could have possibly known of this Quest, he received his answer quickly. Gandalf sat on his back, shielding a smirk with his wing. He had called the young warrior, and of course whatever the eagle did was obviously right, as Elrond had long ago learned.

            Legolas also was welcomed into the pack.

            And then Elrond stood back, admiring the fine group he had gathered. They looked into his eyes and he spoke to them.

            -I regret that I must leave you now; there is other work that must be done which Arwen and myself shall attend to as you journey on together. Gandalf shall lead you on your way, and he is both wise and powerful. Heed him well. I declare you now the newly founded Pack of the Quest. May all the powers of Eru and Elbereth watch over you.-   

            And spinning in the air, he sped off to the West with Arwen right behind him. Aragorn sang a wavering love note after her, and then all was silent.

            Merry moved forward and rubbed Legolas with his scent, and it began. The new pack mingled together and created their own unique banner, one that any pack would recognize as a force to be reckoned with, for scents carry more than just a distinct aroma; they carry messages about the wolf himself.

            Aragorn, Boromir, Merry, and Legolas gave the banner a strong scent of strength. Pippin, Frodo and Sam contributed youth and stamina. Legolas also promised speed, while Merry also had a strong scent of cleverness. The two Numenor lastly added battle experience. 

            The banner itself strengthened the pack and cemented them together. 

            With a great cry, Gandalf soared into the air and flew towards the East. Tossing their heads and rearing mightily, the Pack of the Quest followed him towards Mordor.

            ~

            In two weeks of traveling, a hierarchy formed. Although Gandalf led them, Aragorn was establishing himself as the actual wolf alpha, with Legolas as his capable beta. The strict lines between Numenor and Elven had dissolved in this pack, making all equal and crushing their last misgivings about each other.

            Boromir, Merry, and Sam were powerful contributors as well, giving a good deal when the pack felled a caribou and feasted. However, Pippin and Frodo had yet to prove themselves any more than tagalongs. 

            ~

            Late at night, the pack rested.

            Aragorn sat on the top of a low hill, surveying his pack. The full moon shone behind him, shining through his ruff and giving his silhouette an eerie glow. Gliding up the hill next to him came Legolas, who nuzzled him respectfully under the chin to say 'You are the alpha' before sitting down next to him in the quiet.

            Whimpering in his sleep, Frodo kicked his little paws uselessly. He sensed danger; it rolled towards him in waves from the East, and he disliked walking right into it. Seeing the pup in the grip of a nightmare, Sam settled his stocky body down next to him and nuzzled his curly head.

            The brilliant blue eyes snapped open, staring about in the dark for a moment before finally resting on Sam. And in that moment, the young male realized that Frodo held something special, something vitally important that no one else had yet seen. This pup held the key to the Quest.

            Bowing his large head, Sam brought his muzzle up reverently and licked Frodo's chin. 

            'I will follow you.'

            And Frodo nodded with wisdom beyond his puppy years.

            Nearby, Boromir's large body was curled carefully around little Pippin, who snuggled into his dense brown fur. As technically useless as the pup was, Boromir had gotten dearly attached to him and refused to acknowledge his lack of contribution. Merry rested his sleeping head on the large wolf's back. The three had formed a close bond, becoming almost their own little clique.

            A rustle overhead caused all the wolves to lift their gaze. Gandalf's mighty silhouette passed over them, wings stretching almost unnaturally across the starlit sky. Filled with joy and strength at the sight of their beloved leader, the wolves sang.

            Aragorn threw back his head and sang a clear middle note. Merry and Sam took notes just a little higher, while Boromir rumbled a deep bass note that would have shaken a mountain. Legolas crooned a note that was a notch below Aragorn's, and Frodo sang a silver note at the top. Last of all, Pippin soared to a note above everyone's.

            The pack harmonized, their voices sliding up and down the musical scale in what could only be called a symphony. And high above, an eagle called. Gandalf had made his contribution to the song. 

~ To Be Continued 


	5. Moria

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: A rather short chapter, but a lot happens. The next one will be longer. And here we see things becoming even more familiar…

Chapter Five

~

            And then the East was reached. The only thing that stood between the pack and Mordor was the long, dark strip of land known as Moria. The place was desolate and empty, and worked better than any icy river at keeping intruders out.

            There was no other option.

            With Gandalf flying low over their heads, the pack entered the dark land.

            The very sky seemed to cloud over and absorb any and all sunlight, so it was impossible to tell whether it was day or night. They guessed it had been about three days when they came across the body of a wolf.

            Though long decayed and nothing more but a skeleton, the build suggested that he had once been a great warrior, an alpha. He was lying at the bottom of a ravine, the walls yawning up around him on every side.

            Coming forward, Legolas sniffed the bones carefully.

            With a cry of alarm, he jerked away, his body twisting in the air as his bark yelped a warning.

            But it was too late. Raising their heads, the wolves looked up and around and saw their fate. The walls of the canyon were lined with Orcs. 

            Orcs were fell creatures, animals that looked like they might have once been wolves but are most clearly not. Their fur was thick and scraggly at the same time, a horrible bristly coat that is rough and stained with blood. And their color was black, not the rich shining black of Elrond and Arwen, but a loathsome blackness that seemed to draw in any light like a vacuum, leaving the color of fear and hate.

            With hoarse, vicious barks, the Orcs plunged into the ravine and into the Pack.

            When in battle, Aragorn was a terrible sight to see. His lips pulled back to show razor sharp fangs, his mouth gaping open and tearing into anything foul and evil. Boromir also fought like a mad thing, using his body to crush the smaller animals. Pippin and Frodo yowled in terror, cowering behind their elders Merry and Sam. Enraged, Sam lunged forward and sank his teeth into an Orc, killing it, and so becoming the first Hobbit wolf to ever kill an enemy. 

            Gandalf swooped upon the Orcs, gouging out their eyes with his talons like knives, ripping into their ears with his powerful grip. And Legolas used his whole body to fight, arching and bucking, and then launching a mighty kick from his hind legs. 

            But the Orcs were many, and continued to pour from an unknown source until all seemed to be one writhing mass of black fur. 

            And then they were gone.

            Yelping in terror, the Orcs fled with such speed it was as if they had never been. Only the corpses littered at their feet reassured the Pack that it had not been some queer vision. 

            Suddenly, they heard it.

            Legolas was the first, his head tipping back and ears swiveling madly. And then all the rest became aware of the terrible sound; a high-pitched whine unlike anything they had ever heard before. Gradually, the whine built into a screaming roar, and the enemy swooped low overhead.

            It was a plane, a low-flying plane with machine guns mounted on its' wings and the name 'BALROG' painted on its' massive steel belly. It circled around and strafed them again, its' engines roaring at a deafening volume.

            The pack fled, up out of the valley and back towards the Northwest, towards safety. They could not cross Moria now; there was far more danger here than anticipated. Flattening to the ground, the wolves raced across the barren land like shooting stars, their legs pumping with speed. Boromir seized the lagging Pippin in his teeth and carried the pup by his scruff, while Aragorn carried Frodo. 

            And still the 'BALROG' drew nearer, its' guns firing and kicking up the snow at the wolves' feet.

            They would never make it.

            And suddenly, with the screaming war cry of an eagle, Gandalf turned in midair to face the foe. Frodo's little voice rose into a wail of terror as the noble eagle flew closer to the plane…

            All the hellish lights of the 'BALROG' came on, giving it a horrifying glow…

            And with the last of his strength, Gandalf hurtled himself into its' windshield.

            Instantly the plane went out of control, crashing towards the ground and plowing up the earth behind them even as the wolves lifted their feet. Faster and faster, almost right on top of them…

            A ravine yawned ahead…

            With power thought impossible the pack flew over the gap, their legs gifted with adrenaline enough to make the jump.

            The 'BALROG', however, slid into the ravine and fell silent. And then all was chaos as the monster erupted into flames, spewing death and destruction everywhere and causing debris to rain from the sky in a fiery Armageddon. 

            ~

            Once outside of Moria, the pack wept, their heart-broken voices ringing hollowly on the night air.

            Gandalf the Great had fallen.

            The Quest was alone.

~ To Be Continued   


	6. The Fellowship is Scattered

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: IMPORTANT! This is a long chapter. (waits for the cheers to stop) However, the next chapter won't be up for about a week. I'm going on vacation, and we have to drive there, and then we have to settle in. But we got a laptop, and all's well. So hang in there, and give lots of reviews! :D

            Chapter Six

~  

            Galadriel sat upright, her fine ears sweeping back and forth and her delicate muzzle pointed towards the wind. She smelled… sorrow. Sorrow and pain.

            And in less than an hour the weary Pack of the Quest straggled into her line of vision.

            She had heard of this group, receiving the news from a very bewildered-sounding Glorfindel, who had followed and watched the forming of the Pack of the Quest from a distance. He had told her that Gandalf flew with them, but she did not see the eagle.

            Trotting towards the group, a calm Celeborn to her right and a bristling Haldir on her left, she looked at them carefully.

            She knew the alpha and the other Numenor male. They were of Gondorian descent. The four little ones she did not recognize. The last wolf…

            Legolas sprang from his pack and raced towards his kin, rubbing his body against Galadriel and Celeborn, telling them in soft whimpers of the loss of his father. The Lorien alpha male hung his head; Thranduil had been a mighty leader, and to have been struck down by famine was a terrible loss. 

            Galadriel stepped closer to the group, whimpered softly and asked for Gandalf, as she had not seen the spirit of the tundra in too long. But the other wolves stared mournfully back at her, and the little blue-eyed one began to howl softly, a quavering, heart-rending sound.

            So Gandalf was lost. And this Pack of the Quest teetered on disaster. 

            Suddenly Haldir leapt forward, his hackles raised and teeth bared. He did not trust this motley group, and had long detested Boromir in the first place. Walking closer on stiff legs, signaling anger and distrust, he snarled loudly at the opposite pack. 

            Barking her displeasure, Galadriel nipped him hard on the neck, giving Aragorn pause to raise his furry eyebrows. Haldir flattened himself to the ground, humbled. Nipping on the back of the neck was a gesture used only with particularly misbehaving pups. The beta of the Lorien pack was shamed.

            Ears and tail lowered in friendship, Galadriel nuzzled Aragorn and invited he and his pack into the safety of Lorien territory.

            ~

            Sitting on her 'throne', a fine green hill, Galadriel reflected on this ragtag bunch before her. Celeborn rumbled softly at her feet, giving her the position of alpha for the time being. She was wiser in such matters. For only she sensed it…

            Of the Lorien wolves, Galadriel alone realized that this Quest was their only hope. She had seen the signs and heard the warnings; the Great Hunter was not out for blood. He was out to destroy, to annihilate. And only His own death would stop him.

            Long ago the wolves had risen against him, and they had failed. Now, his danger had fallen on a new generation, and this generation would defeat it.

            And so she let them reside on her land, refreshing their strength for the weary journey that lie ahead for many more miles.

            ~

            It was with deep regret that the Pack of the Quest left the land of Lorien. Although Haldir had been rather nasty, Celeborn had kept him under control. And any suffering was worth the beauty and gentleness of Galadriel. 

            She had treated all of the pack members with nothing but kindness, even allowing them to hunt with her, a great honor for strangers visiting a different territory.

            The Pack journeyed Southward, for from that direction Aragorn planned to lead them up into Mordor. They traveled in the no-wolf zone that ran between the borders of Gondor territory and the land of the Rohan wolves, a path that took them directly South. Soon, they would go past any wolf boundaries and into the Wild Land, a place where no packs dwelled and no wolf had ever gone. 

            It was when they were over halfway through when disaster struck.

            ~

            It was the age of the Great Hunter.

            Hundreds of Orcs had ruptured forth from their lairs in Moria, forming crude packs and planning to pillage the land. They streamed out across the tundra, mouths agape and searching for food.

            This particular pack had cut though the middle-Southern portion of Gondor territory, Denethor and Faramir hardly aware of their presence. The Orcs had trekked on, stumbling into the no-wolf's land in a tragic coincidence, as they collided with the Pack of the Quest head-on.

            Aragorn rose on his hind legs and dove into the fray, fangs flashing with fury. Behind him came Legolas, a stormcloud of claws and teeth. The Orcs were numerous; the Pack was split in three by their merciless attack.

            Sam seized Frodo in his teeth and fled into Gondor territory, pouring any and all speed he possessed into protecting the beloved pup.

            Aragorn and Legolas continued to fight madly against their foe, killing many but finding no escape.

            And Boromir took his last stand, fur shining with his own blood as he fought to save Merry and Pippin. Merry, for his small part, was trying to fight and failing. The filthy jaws of an Orc seized him by the scruff, and Pippin soon was captured also.

            Wounded beyond hope, the mighty wolf Boromir sank to the ground, defeated and howling in agony as his companions were dragged away to be consumed elsewhere. 

            ~

            When all the Orcs were slain, Aragorn and Legolas raced to the source of the pained cries. But they were too late, and Boromir's large head slipped to the ground, as he died, his powerful spirit leaving the broken body to fly across the tundra.

            Aragorn and Legolas' grief was terrible to behold. Their mourning song was more reminiscent of human screams, their voices rising and falling like the dying wind. They paced about the bloodied area, nuzzling their fallen companion and wailing for their lost. For they believed that the Hobbit wolves also had been slain, and their bodies dragged off to be eaten.

            ~

            It was miraculously seven hours later when Sam slowed his frantic pace; having been driven by a need he did not understand but obeyed without question. Setting down his burden, he watched as the exhausted pup fell asleep instantly.

            Looking about, Sam realized they were in the Southern end of Moria. So this was what it came down to. He realized he could not turn back now; the stakes had been raised to the ultimate height, and it was do…

            Or die.

~ To Be Continued 


	7. Vengeance and Reunions

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

  
  


Author's Notes: You like me! You really like me! *ahem* Thank you all for your well wishes; South Carolina is GORGEOUS, and the sea air really wakes up a person's muse... which you all know is absolutely vital. :D

  
  


Cudae - Your reviews always make me smile! Yay! In answer to your question, my laptop does not have the Internet wirelessly. But it does have a phone jack... 

  
  


Amarth - As for your questions, one of them will be answered by the end of this chapter. As for the other... wait and see... *looks around mysteriously*

  
  


TK - Yes, Sam is Sam. :D 

  
  


Everyone Else - Gah! I love all my reviewers! That's why I immediately hopped on the writing program to bring you...

  
  


  
  
  
  


Chapter Seven

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~

  
  


Vengeance.

  
  


That was all that mattered now.

  
  


The Pack of the Quest was destroyed. Boromir and the Hobbit wolves slain. Only two remained. And those two would die before they let those that had killed their comrades escape.

  
  


Swifter than the moonbeams above, Legolas and Aragorn swept across the tundra in impossible strides. They ran without tiring, they ran without fear. Only one thing mattered:

  
  


Vengeance.

  
  


Occasionally, Aragorn would stop and press his muzzle to the ground, searching for their trail. And every once in a while, Legolas would throw back his head and howl the cry of an Elven wolf on the hunt. Hunting for blood.

  
  


They had been running for two days. The trail of the Orcs was strong and easily followed. So easy it was to follow, that Aragorn didn't need to search as much. This nearly proved disastrous, for they almost missed it...

  
  


But they didn't.

  
  


Aragorn's keen eyes swept along the ground, and he spied the signs of a scuffle. A little ways from that was a set of tracks that could not be Orc made.

  
  


Lowering his head, he sniffed it cautiously.

  
  


Pippin's familiar scent raced up towards him. It smelled of fear and danger, but it was still Pippin.

  
  


Alive.

  
  


The song of Aragorn and Legolas filled the air, their joy resonating with such emotion that even a swarming pack of Orcs would have felt their hearts warmed.

  
  


Pippin survived.

  
  


And so the lust for vengeance disappeared to be replaced by a different mission. A rescue party.

  
  


~

  
  


And even then, hope seemed miles away.

  
  


They had scarcely reached the Southernmost border of the land when they came across the remains of a battlefield. Orc bodies littered the ground, dozens of the filthy carcasses heaped together. The scent of the Rohan pack was thick on the air; they'd been patrolling and had attacked without mercy.

  
  


In vain and for many hours did Legolas and Aragorn search for the bodies of Merry, Pippin, Frodo, and Sam. But no sign of them was to be found, even though they followed the Orc scents to the icy stream that ran Southward.

  
  


The Hobbit wolves were lost indeed.

  
  


A new song rose, a song reminiscent of the mourning song for Gandalf. But the woe in this was almost double; for the two now thought themselves to be the last of the Pack of the Quest.

And so they were in that state of mourning when the Rohan pack came upon them.

  
  


Handsome young Eomer came bounding over the crest of a hill, his tail lifted like a flag in the breeze of the early morning. Eowyn followed, then Theoden, and lastly, sulking Wormtongue.

  
  


Aragorn and Legolas, still weary with grief, nonetheless braced themselves for battle. Gandalf, their safeguard, was gone, and they were at the mercy of this pack for trespassing on their land. 

But instead of attacking, Eomer pranced forward with his tail relaxed. Friendship. Theoden came forward and inspected them, but otherwise made no attempt to snap or snarl. Eowyn stood at the respectful distance of a female. Only Wormtongue, sniveling Wormtongue, nipped at Aragorn in disgust. But Theoden bossed him to the ground, simply by virtue of his powerful alpha posture. 

  
  


Exchanging bewildered looks, the remainder of the Pack could not understand. The Rohan pack was notorious for fighting their trespassers.

  
  


And then all became clear.

  
  


Neck arched proudly and tail raised like a banner, Elrond himself came loping over the hill, followed by Arwen. He indeed had been doing an important task, and had long spoke with Theoden of the Pack of the Quest. It was he who had convinced the old alpha of their importance, and it was because of his council that Aragorn and Legolas were not slain on the spot. 

  
  


Yipping with pleasure, Arwen and Aragorn raced towards each other, meeting and rubbing their noses together affectionately. He nuzzled his head along her side, and she did the same for him. These were the gestures of mates that loved each other, and Elrond saw this.

  
  


He did not have long to think on it, for a very happy Legolas was nuzzling him under the chin. 'You are the alpha' he said. 'And you have been missed.' Elrond smiled and exposed his fangs, but the smile quickly faded.

  
  


Parting the two lovers, he looked intensely into Aragorn's eyes.

  
  


-The others? Where are they? Have they fallen so quickly and so many?-

  
  


Aragorn looked away in sorrow, and Elrond hung his head. But in an instant, the iron will that had kept him alive in the years of solitude hardened once more, and he lifted his gaze again.

  
  


-The stakes are raised and the battle continues. But all hope is not lost.- 

  
  


He turned his face to the East, his ears lifted and his nostrils quivering. Closing his eyes, he listened. Eowyn and Aragorn did the same, straining their senses to the limit. Suddenly, Aragorn's eyes flew open and he understood. Slowly, Elrond woke himself and glanced about at the seven wolves before him.

  
  


Not enough for what was coming.

  
  


Elrond sighed, the burdens of this task weighing on him. But strength was found once more, and he rose to his burden. 

  
  


His eyes fell on Theoden.

  
  


-Ready your pack.- he commanded levelly. -The enemy moves in great numbers, and even now rises to attack. They will come here. Be ready. And fear not; hope will come when all seems lost.-

  
  


Ever restless and ever needed, Elrond spun towards the North and ran like the wind, his ruff dancing from the speed until he eventually winked out of sight.

  
  


And still the danger drew near...

  
  


~

  
  


Far to the South, Merry and Pippin fled for their lives.

  
  


They had escaped from the Orcs during the attack from Rohan, late at night, and ran as fast they could on their little legs through the icy stream, their scent lost in its' depths. They didn't look back, they didn't even think, only focused on getting away.

  
  


Merry was bleeding from the head; a particularly nasty bite from an Orc had marked him. But otherwise, the Hobbit wolves were only tired.

  
  


And also very afraid.

  
  


For they though themselves to be the last of the Pack of the Quest, having seen Boromir fall they could only assume the worst for their comrades.

  
  


And still they ran, until they were beyond the lands that any wolf had ever gone to before. Lost in the wide expanse of the South, they stopped at last to rest.

  
  


Merry paced about, sniffing the ground and searching for any sign of something to eat. And on the ground, Pippin shivered, tired and hungry and longing for the protection of Boromir once more.

  
  


Suddenly, the pup cried out in terror.

  
  


Startled, Merry whirled around and found himself staring up at the largest creature he had ever seen....

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~ To Be Continued

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  



	8. Ents and the Preparation for Battle

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.  
  


Author's Notes: A BILLION apologies to my loyal reviewers! Life has been hectic, with cleaning and school (I'm home-schooled, so school comes along on vacation! NOOOOOO!) and all sorts of stuff. And to top it off, we went on a vacation-within-a-vacation and visited my Grandpa up in his mountain hideaway. Good news and bad news. Bad news: There was no Internet! Good news: My muse apparently likes mountain air too, and finally pulled me out of my writer's block. You see, this chapter was the hardest one ever to write. I'm hoping it meets all your patient expectations. Please enjoy...  
  


  
  


Chapter Eight   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~  
  


Quaking, Merry strained his ears and eyes to make out the enormous figure in the mist. It was large, huge, towering high above them on long, thin legs. Great, branch-like shapes loomed near its' head. And then it stepped forward...  
  


A moose.  
  


A moose it was, mighty and strong, old and wise, ruler of the South and all his herds. His dangling furry throat was clumped with moss, and in the Hobbit wolves' minds he became Treebeard. 

Lowering his large head, the sweeping antlers that they had mistaken for tree branches became clear.  
  


Cowering to the ground in fear, Merry nonetheless stood before Pippin, ready to die protecting the younger pup. He saw the size of this creature, and in its' largeness saw only a threat. Perhaps he could fight it...  
  


But Treebeard was of the elder mind, and had always possessed the gift of communication by thought, not unlike Elrond and Gandalf.   
  


-Little wolves, do not fear me.-  
  


Cracking his eyes open, Pippin looked up at the giant in awe. And coming around from behind Merry, he walked boldly towards the moose and touched the huge muzzle with his own tiny nose.  
  


Merry sighed and Treebeard rumbled deep in his chest, a low droning sound that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet.   
  


Thrusting his head closer to them, Treebeard inclined the antlers towards the little wolves. They were wide and cupped within, like a bowl with decorative ridges around the edge. And Merry saw what he meant...  
  


Taking Pippin in his teeth, Merry cautiously slid the pup into one of the massive antlers. He glanced at Treebeard for reassurance, and the old moose nodded. Satisfied, Merry himself clambered onto the other, bracing himself.  
  


Treebeard lifted his mighty head...  
  


Never before had either of the Hobbit wolves been quite so high off the ground. At first it was daunting, and both closed their eyes in fear. But Treebeard stood still until they adjusted to the height, and then took off at a slow, easy pace, his long legs hardly bending at their joints and instead moving in large and stiff strides.  
  


And for the first time since their capture, Merry and Pippin felt a thrill of hope spark within them...  
  


~

They traveled for a few hours, passing the enormous stretches of the low country that moose inhabited, the land dotted with clumps of shrubbery and the occasional tree. Partridges scurried underfoot, and every so often a lemming would poke its' head from its' nest and cast its' gaze about in annoyance at being disturbed.  
  


This was the land of the Ents, the great herds of moose that had once wandered the whole tundra but had been driven to the South by the Great Hunter in the days of old. And as Treebeard continued his journey, many others joined him, their craggy antlers clustering together to give the illusion of a walking forest.  
  


And Merry and Pippin saw it all from the top, staring in awe at these mighty beast that they could not believe they had never heard of. The herd seemed to stretch on into eternity, an eternity of shaggy backs and mossy beards.  
  


Finally, the Ents stopped their march in a grove of sorts, forming a circle with their massive bodies. Treebeard lowered his head and the Hobbit wolves hopped from their perch, looking around at those watching them.  
  


The eyes... never had they seen such eyes before. For the eyes of the Ents seemed deep and unfathomable, dark and foreboding at the same time they twinkled with hidden mirth. Those clear orbs seemed to own all the secret knowledge of the world, every little thing there was to know about the tundra and its' inhabitants.   
  


-He told us you would come.- Treebeard nodded sagely. -He said so, he did.-  
  


Merry turned a questioning gaze up to him, and all the Ents rumbled with a kind of sound that could only be laughter.  
  


-Now we must only wait. Wait for the signal. That is what he told us to do.-  
  


Now the Hobbit wolves exchanged their own confused glances, while Treebeard turned to his herd.  
  


-Imagine us coming forth once more!-  
  


And the Ents laughed again, a sound that could be described best as -Hoom, hom, hoom, hom....- or something along those lines. It was a strange sound, warm and full of deep contentment born of many years of peace.   
  


Yipping with delight, Pippin danced in the snow, his curly-furred little body twisting and arching joyfully. A dance of happiness, he tossed his head and howled in a shrill voice that made the Ents laugh again. Panting, the pup turned his happy face up to his saviors. Again, he trotted forward and rubbed his head along Treebeard's foreleg, sending a strong message,  
  


'Thank you.' 

~  
  


And still to the North, tension was high.  
  


Aragorn was restless, pacing to and fro and sniffing the air. Danger was coming, hurtling towards them, and all he could do was wait. He could not run out and seek it; that would surely result in his death. For the Rohan pack would not leave its' territory, leaving only Legolas and Arwen at his side should he choose to race towards his foe.  
  


And putting Arwen in danger was not an option.  
  


Flopping down on a mossy hilltop, he tipped his head to the sky. Having lived most of his life as an omega, the bottom of the pack, he was used to scorn and sneers. But the female Elven wolf seemed to care for him, and he found himself reciprocating the feelings, foreign though they were.  
  


Suddenly, teeth closed on the back of his neck.  
  


Leaping to his feet, Aragorn spun in the air, jerking his body to rid himself of the intruder. The move worked, and his attacker was thrown to the ground before him.  
  


Wormtongue. Snarling, the beta of the Rohan pack got to his feet indignantly, licking a stray patch of fur back into place as though nothing had happened.  
  


Legolas came loping up, having heard the commotion and always ready to defend his leader, Aragorn. Sensing what had happened, he advanced on Wormtongue with his hackles raised and teeth bared. Assuming an authoritative stance, he towered over the smaller grey wolf until Wormtongue lowered himself to the ground. But he did not roll onto his back in the 'surrender' position. He was not finished, and that was clear.  
  


The slim Mirkwood wolf would have attacked Wormtongue for this insolence, but a casual grunt-whine from Aragorn told him otherwise. Reluctantly, Legolas curled his lip back over his glistening fangs, and lowered his bristling ruff. But he cast Wormtongue a look that was plain:  
  


'I'll be watching you.'  
  


Wormtongue shot a mocking sneer at him when he turned his back.  
  


~  
  


The starry night brought little comfort. Theoden and Eomer sang a brief song to the half-moon, but no one else joined in and they fell quiet. Wormtongue focused all his attention on scratching out a sleep-bed. Ears cocked serenely, Legolas listened to the wind and felt the calm before a storm.  
  


Arwen was scratching herself a place to sleep on the rough ground when Aragorn came up beside her. Using his powerful claws, he uprooted the earth and turned it over and over, creating a soft bed of moss. Turning his gaze to Arwen, he gave her a crooked wolf-smile. Flashing a smile of her own, she nuzzled him fondly under the chin.   
  


Nearby, the young Eowyn pined.  
  


As soon as Aragorn left Arwen to her sleep, the Rohan female caught up to him and yipped in a friendly manner. He rumbled a polite response and continued back towards his own nest. Trying again, she rubbed her head on his side in a slightly-more-than-friendly fashion. Surprised, Aragorn lifted his head above hers in a sharp gesture that said, 'I am the alpha'. And instinctively, she slunk away to her own sleep spot.  
  


Rejected.  
  


As an alpha and beta, Aragorn and Legolas exchanged meaningful glances. Shuddering, the Elven turned his gaze to the East. Aragorn followed suit, and gave a soft whine.   
  


It would not be long.  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~ To Be Continued  
  
  
  



	9. The First Battle

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

  
  


Author's Notes: Woo! Another chapter! And this makes it officially my longest story ever. Sorry with the slow going... many thanks to all my loyal reviewers!!! I'm getting a lot of requests for Frodo and Sam... hmm... Next chapter, people, and you'll be stuck with them for a while! :D I don't hear any protest... anyway, this battle combines Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields, as I figured too many epic battles and they weren't wolves any more. Enough babble! Here is...

  
  


  
  
  
  


Chapter Nine

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~

  
  


All too soon the Enemy raised its' ugly head. 

  
  


A clear day had dawned on the tundra, the rising sun painting the sky a fierce blood red. It seemed a horrible omen of what was coming...

  
  


The Rohan pack and its' visitors were on their feet instantly, the electricity on the air so real and tangible that Legolas' fur stood on end. Nostrils quivering and tails raised, the wolves leaned into the wind and smelled the danger hurtling towards them.

  
  


A great black mass came into their vision, blotting their horizon. At first it seemed one great and terrible shadow, but it became clear that this was not the case. It was Orcs, perhaps several hundred of them, fangs glistening in the morning light and bristly fur looking like mats of blackness stolen from the night.

  
  


It was time.

  
  


Rising on his hind legs, Aragorn sounded a long and proud war cry, and the pack sounded back. Spurring into motion, the mighty grey wolf sped towards the attackers, the rest of his companions at his heels. The Orcs, seeing the charge, picked up speed to meet them with equal force.

  
  


With a hideous roar, the opposing forces met.

  
  


Great was the strength of the Rohan pack, and all of its' members were capable fighters. And of course, neither Legolas nor Aragorn had any match in battle. But the foe was numerous, and it was difficult going.

  
  


At first, with their fresh strength and stamina, the wolves held up easily. But the enemy kept coming, and they were gradually beaten backwards. And still Aragorn refused to sound the retreat. 

  
  


He fought like a possessed creature, seemingly unaware of the bloody wounds laid open across his flanks. At his side, Legolas fought with the same indomitable fury that kept them going strong even in the midst of the carnage.

  
  


Orc bodies were piling up, great heaps of their black forms scattering the battle field. 

  
  


And suddenly, treachery appeared.

  
  


Covered in Orcs, infamous for latching onto their prey, Aragorn was helpless against the abrupt turn of events. For in the midst of battle, Wormtongue turned and latched his teeth on Aragorn's throat, growling terribly. The Orcs still clung, and Aragorn fought in vain for his air.

  
  


The world was swirling, all he could see was Wormtongue's snarling face... 

  
  


Sailing through the air, Legolas used his body to knock Wormtongue away. And in the thick of the war raging around them, two wolves fought. It was life or death this time. Feinting and bristling, the two circled around and around.

  
  


Finally, Legolas lunged for real. Everything seemed to slow... but Legolas' aim was true, and his teeth clacked shut on the furry patch of Wormtongue's throat. In less than a minute, it was over.

  
  


Wormtongue the traitor lay dead on the ground.

  
  


And still the enemy came on in droves, waves, and the group of now six stumbled backwards. Refusing to yield, refusing to give. And yet death was imminent.

  
  


A triumphant call sounded from somewhere.

  
  


The combined forces of the Lorien and Imladris pack came slicing in from the rear, striking the Orcs unaware and slaying them rapidly. They were fresh and strong, and fought like demons.

  
  


And soon Aragorn saw Elrond fighting at his side.

  
  


Hope was renewed and the battle continued. But the day stretched onward, and the enemy showed no sign of waning.

  
  


The retreat was sounded.

  
  


Turning on their heels, the wolves fled. Theoden knew this territory well; the packs followed him to a massive fortress.

  
  


For a fortress it was, an enormous bowl shape carved into the earth, rising up impossibly high in the back and sides, leaving only an opening at the front. It was called the Deep, for that was the only name for it, buried deep in the ground. The wolves entered and turned their teeth to guard the entrance.

  
  


Safe. For the moment, anyways.

  
  


Elrond and Arwen rested their heads on each others' sides, rejoicing in their reunion. From a short distance away, Aragorn watched respectfully. Seeing this, the black wolf released his daughter to go to her love, and the two young wolves nuzzled affectionately.

  
  


Sides heaving for air, Legolas stood near the entrance and watched. The Orcs were drawing back, settling in a wide semi-circle before the entrance, and only exit. For the moment, the wolves were trapped. 

  
  


Meanwhile, the new-coming packs of Lorien and Imladris were adjusting to their surroundings. Elrond had appeared to them and summoned them to the South without a moment to loose. With her uncanny instinct, Galadriel had not questioned him and had also ordered Glorfindel to follow. 

  
  


The Elven packs had not fought such a battle in years. For so long, the tundra had been peaceful and calm. But now the dam was broken, and evil fled through the land with awful force. And now the packs were slowly joining together to finally face this intruder and destroy it once and for all.

  
  


But all was not harmony among the ranks. 

  
  


Bristling and showing his teeth, Haldir circled the Rohan pack. He had never seen these wolves before, and hardly trusted them. Theoden snarled back, but wearily. The old alpha was exhausted by the day's battle, and the young Elven beta saw this. Lifting his head, Haldir took the alpha position. 

  
  


A sharp bite on his shoulder brought him down. Glorfindel stood there, growling. Lifting his tail and raising his hackles to appear twice his size, the Imladris alpha bossed Haldir to the ground. The rebellion was stopped. 

  
  


Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, Glorfindel, and Theoden went off to discuss the next strategy. Glancing over her shoulder, Galadriel asked with her eyes if Aragorn wanted to join the council. He did, and followed the elders over to meet.

  
  


Night came on, and still the Orcs remained firmly rooted without. Legolas, Rumil, and Orophin barked many threats at them, but nothing worked. The moon rose overhead, giving an eerie glow to the Enemy forces. Something else was out there... Squinting and tilting his head, Legolas strained his eyes...

  
  


And suddenly chaos broke loose.

  
  


A gunshot shattered the air, blasting a fiery orange crater in the ground near the entrance. Breaking council, the six leaders raced to the opening and looked out. Devilry from Mordor... A few two-legged shapes loomed on the horizon. 

  
  


The wolves were not alone.

  
  


The gunfire rained on the Deep all night, lighting the sky with brilliant flares. And still the Orcs remained in their position, their beady eyes twinkling in the occasional flash. 

  
  


Day broke, and with it brought little promise. But the wolves had rested and regained some strength, so there was a sliver of hope. That hope was quickly crushed by the sight that awaited without. There was little chance of survival.

  
  


The five alphas turned a respectful gaze to Aragorn. It was he who would lead this final charge, with Elrond at his right side and Legolas to his left. Lifting his head, the young Numenor male summoned the last reserves of his strength and courage.

  
  


And then he howled the attack call.

  
  


Tragically beautiful was the sight of the wolves racing towards death, willing to die fighting for the end of evil. The Orcs rose from the seats at last, barking horribly in their rasping voices and tearing into the fray.

  
  


The battle was on.

  
  


Rumil and Orophin fell first, side by side, a ring of slain Orcs around them. They were the brothers of Haldir, and the grief and anger of the beta spurred him into battle more fiercely than before.

  
  


In the midst of battle, Theoden fought as he had in his younger days, a vison of the glory he had once known. And suddenly, he found himself alone, in a clearing, and an apparition of hell appeared before him.

  
  


A hunter, clad all in black, a ski-mask pulled over his face and many guns strapped to him, on his thighs and across his back, and ammunition belts across his chest. He was one of the Nazgul, the elite band of nine hunters that were trained by the Great One himself. A rifle rested in his hands, and he leveled it at the old alpha before him.

  
  


A shot was fired.

  
  


And then a lithe form exploded up behind the Nazgul, teeth flashing in the sun and clamping down with a terrible fury on his neck. In two powerful shakes, that neck was broken, and the female of the Rohan pack stood over her victory.

  
  


Eowyn raced at once to Theoden's side, but the aim of the Nazgul had been true, and the mighty alpha was dead. 

  
  


Four more Nazgul appeared, guns firing into the battle, caring little whether they hits Orcs or wolves, as long as they hit something. Lindir and Erestor of the Imladris pack were slain by the poisonous shots.

  
  


Hope was lost.

  
  


Fighting valiantly, Aragorn could only think of the words Elrond had spoken to him only days before...

  
  


-Fear not. Hope will come when all seems lost.-

  
  


And then something miraculous happened...

  
  


With a screaming war cry, a great eagle appeared in the sky above. It was not grey, nor brown, but the purest white of all, with blackened wingtips as if burned by some great fire.

  
  


Gandalf the Great had returned!

  
  


He wheeled overhead, and the wolves saw him. Great was their rejoicing, and even in the middle of a terrible battle they sang joyfully. Swooping into the fray, Gandalf scattered the Orcs with his talons and flew to Elrond's side, landing on his shoulder. The Half-Elven sang as well at the return of his dear friend, and the battle began anew.

  
  


A great thundering sound filled the air...

  
  


Mighty and powerful, the Ents came pouring over the horizon and into the thick of the fight. Gandalf had summoned them from the South, and they now appeared not as reinforcements, but an army of vengeful guardians. Dozens of Orcs fell under Treebeard alone, and the tide turned at last.

  
  


At the heels of this enormous army came two yipping followers. Merry and Pippin came into battle, and though they had very little fighting skills they tried their best. 

  
  


Shots were being fired from closer now, as the Nazgul moved in for the kill. If they could have their way, there would be no survivors.

  
  


They did not anticipate the two small sets of teeth clamping on the backs of their knees. Momentarily crippled, the Nazgul stumbled long enough for larger wolves to finish them off. Merry and Pippin had proved their worth after all.

  
  


The remaining Orcs, about twenty in number, attempted a retreat and were cut down immediately. The Enemy was slain. 

  
  


The battle was over. The battle was won.

  
  


But the war was just beginning. 

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


~ To Be Continued

  
  
  
  



	10. An Unexpected Guide

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

  
  


Author's Notes: Ack! Yes, the chapters are taking longer. A shout-out to some of my reviewers:

  
  


Tenshiamanda - Thanks a ton for your reviews. I'm glad this story holds your interests and whatnot. I'm amazing? Ooo... :D

  
  


TK - At a loss for words. I'm thrilled I've reduced you to such a state. Thanks for all your reviews as well!

  
  


Cudae - Here's some Frodo and Sam for you. Sorry I've made you wait so long. :)

  
  


Abigail da Jedi - Never read it, never heard of it. Eeps!

  
  


Amarth - Darling, this chapter's for you. ;)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Chapter Ten

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~

  
  


The mourning began.

  
  


Eomer and Eowyn sang with broken hearts over the body of their strong alpha, Theoden.

  
  


Wrenching was the song of Haldir over his fallen brothers, Rumil and Orophin, which Galadriel and Celeborn also howled for.

  
  


The Imladris pack crooned softly over their loss of Lindir and Erestor.

  
  


While a short distance away, all was joyful as two large wolves and two very little ones shared a reunion that all had thought impossible. Legolas, Aragorn, Merry, and Pippin rubbed noses and bodies, licking faces and whimpering many greetings. 

  
  


Nearby, Arwen sat and watched her love.

  
  


And on a lone hilltop, a wolf and an eagle spoke of the war that still loomed overhead...

  
  


~

  
  


The war was being fought already.

  
  


Days ago, long before the Battle of the Deep was even fought, two small Hobbit wolves were fighting across the Southern end of Moria.

  
  


Frodo and Sam forged onward, deeper and deeper into the territory towards Mordor. Many times had the older wolf paused and looked back, wondering why they were taking this terrible road. But the little pup with the wise blue eyes knew, and kept moving Eastward. 

Deep in his heart, Frodo felt an uncanny pull towards the dark land, knowing somehow that the only way the battle could be won would be there in the heart of evil. He was tiny and frail, but Sam protected him, and with the beta at his side there was the possibility of victory.

  
  


But not now.

  
  


They were lost, wandering through the dark and twisting roads of Moria. At first they had moved with stealth and speed, but then it became clear that the Orcs had moved on. The two could not possibly know that the fell creatures had moved on to the Deep and were preparing for battle.

  
  


Now they drifted aimlessly, always Eastward, but still very uncertain of the route. What if they should stumble upon a trap? Or become lost forever in the winding crevices and ravines? Or what if they should starve?

  
  


Sam worried mournfully, contemplating the hundreds of terrible fates that awaited him if he continued right into the clutches of the Hunter. But he had sworn to follow Frodo, and follow he would, even if it meant his own death.

  
  


Late at night, the two rested in the shelter of an overhanging rock, huddled against the biting wind that sliced through the land. Frodo shivered, and Sam put a paw protectively over him, curling his furry body up behind the pup to provide more warmth. The stars winked overhead, almost mocking in their freedom and peace high in the sky...

  
  


But then there were stars winking on the ground.

  
  


Sam stared. He saw for the briefest of moments two pinpoints of light, very much like the stars he had just been viewing, but very close and certainly not in the sky. They looked almost like...

  
  


Eyes.

  
  


In an instant, Sam was on his feet and racing towards the spot, the confused Frodo sending a yelp after him. Yet upon reaching the place the eyes had been, he saw nothing. Nose to the ground, he sniffed about. There was no trace of life.

  
  


Had he been seeing things?

  
  


Shaking his head, Sam trotted back towards his little charge and settled down again, urging the pup back to sleep. But he himself kept a wary eye out for any signs of intruders.

  
  


His deepest sense warned him that they were not alone.

  
  


~ 

  
  


All through the next day of travel, Sam had the unnerving sense that they were being watched or followed. Many times he whirled around to face their stalker, and always there was no one there.

  
  


Frodo gradually became aware of this as well, and began casting uneasy looks over his shoulder, reluctant to turn his back on this unknown danger.

  
  


It was that night the follower was revealed.

  
  


Curled up together again, Sam feigned sleep and peered out of slitted eyes. The twin stars appeared again, moving swiftly. Definitely a living creature. Sam tensed. The eyes drew nearer, weaving back and forth. Soon he could hear the shuffle of feet. 

  
  


Closing his eyes, Sam lay absolutely still. Heated breath drifted down his neck as something sniffed him. And in a flurry of movement, Sam had leapt to his feet and seized the intruder's neck in his teeth.

  
  


It was a wolf, small like the Hobbit race, but the similarities ended there. This animal was thin, terribly thin and bony, with sparse grey hair and large yellow eyes. 

  
  


This was Gollum. Long ago, he had been caught by the Great Hunter and taken to Mordor. Years in a cage had turned him into a scrawny, shifty creature that was also skittish and sly. He was smart, had always been very smart, but now it was a warped intelligence that was chilling. Inexplicably, he had been set loose in Moria. Uncertain and crazed by the sudden and overpowering freedom, Gollum had gotten cocky and allowed himself to be caught by Sam.

  
  


Whining and wriggling, he arched his back in an attempt to shake Sam off. No use. When his escape failed, Gollum simply went limp and lay trembling on the ground. With a snarl, Sam was about to finish him off...

  
  


When Frodo stepped in the way. Cautiously, the pup came closer to Gollum's face. The wide yellow eyes stared back at him blankly. Frodo gave a little yip, a call of friendship. Gollum's tail wagged slowly. 

  
  
  
  


Growling, Sam stepped between them. He didn't trust this stranger. The scent of the Hunter was faint on his body, and that was enough to spell trouble. Shouldering the grey wolf roughly, Sam ordered him to leave or be slain.

  
  


But Gollum shoved back, with surprising strength, and trotted around the beta to stand next to Frodo. Sam bared his teeth, but the blue-eyed pup reprimanded him with a sharp bark. 

  
  


Gollum was welcomed. 

  
  


He did little at first, just following them around uselessly, making odd little growl-whimpers as he talked to himself, a habit developed in captivity. Sam tolerated him barely, and looked for every excuse to drive him off. 

  
  


And then Gollum proved a purpose.

  
  


Side by side, Sam and Frodo sat staring at the Eastern horizon. Many times they had done this, pondering their route and reflecting on the Shire land they would never see again. Gollum slunk up alongside them and gave a quizzical whimper. Nodding his head, Frodo strained his eyes to the East. Glancing back and forth between the pup and the East, Gollum understood.

  
  


With an explosive bark, he jumped into the air, his legs wind-milling uselessly before landing on the ground and carrying him over the hill. He turned, and whined for them to follow. It became clear to even Sam.

  
  


Gollum knew the way.

  
  


So for days they trailed behind him. He moved with a weird, twisting gait, his head cocking from side to side and his ears always swivelling. And the path zigged and zagged up and down Moria, turning back on itself occasionally as though he were trying to loose someone.

  
  


Always Gollum strived for Frodo's attention. He crawled on his belly, he rolled on his back, anything to get a wolf smile from the pup. And always Frodo granted that smile, sending Gollum into ecstasies that lasted the rest of the day and upped the pace of their travel.

  
  


They came to the Marshes.

  
  


Never was more deadly natural trap found in the tundra. The dark and festering muck would drag the strongest caribou to it's death, and the small solid path that snaked through it was far too thin and perilous. 

  
  


Sam paused at this obstacle and refused to continue. Glancing back, Frodo yipped reassuringly. Bristling, Gollum tossed his head impatiently. Slowly, Sam crept forward and onto that terrible road. He had sworn to follow Frodo, and follow he would. 

  
  


Darkness fell, and still Gollum did not slow their pace. Even Frodo began to get nervous, his paws slipping into the water that heralded a murky grave. He whined for Gollum to stop; he was ignored. Stumbling, Sam landed on his belly and facing the depths.

  
  


The skull of a wolf stared back at him.

  
  


Yelping, he leapt to his feet, racing to Frodo's side. The pup stood paralyzed, staring across the waters at the eerie glows of swamp gas that twisted on the air. He stepped forward, towards that peculiar light...

  
  


And then Gollum was at his side, tugging his shoulder and begging for no more stops. His eyes, glowing strangely in the dark, shifted about nervously as though he sensed a presence lurking in the shadows.

  
  


At dawn, a dark shape passed overhead with the hum of a helicopter. 

  
  


Instantly, Gollum was on the ground, writhing under the phantom pains of needles and scalpels. Sam barked in warning, but the grey wolf would not listen and shrieked like a thousand claws were digging into him. 

  
  


For hours Gollum lay there, shaking and convulsing. Frodo's kind blue eyes widened in sympathetic horror, and he was about to move forward. But suddenly, Gollum was on his feet and racing onward.

  
  


He led them North, and then West again, driven by the terror of whatever had passed them. Now Sam had no idea where he was, and catching up to Gollum, he threw him violently to the ground and snarled. 

  
  


The fight that was about to happen never took place. For at that moment, another wolf loomed from the shadows. A full-sized wolf, proud and strong...

  
  


  
  
  
  


~ To Be Continued


	11. Encounters and Disasters

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

  
  


Author's Notes: Chapter Eleven! Gee, what a fitting name for this installment... to my reviewers:

  
  


frodolover - Glad you took a chance with me! And I'm sorry, I've said this before, but, I need Frodo till the end of the story! Then we'll see!

  
  


Amarth - Good old Gollum. Believe me, I was just as anxious as you to bring him into this story. He gets a lot more time in this chapter, too. Yay.

  
  


Cudae - I love your reviews. Magic words and banging the computer, eh? Maybe the spell has a delayed effect, and this next chapter is the result. :D

  
  


TK and tenshiamanda - Here the mystery wolf is revealed. Thanks for all your reviews. 

  
  


So now! On to...

  
  


  
  
  
  


Chapter Eleven 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~

  
  


Stepping forward, Faramir came into view. He had been wandering Moria quite frequently since the death of the beta, Beregond, as though his presence could fend off and destroy any foul creature that sought to do evil to another he loved. So he walked the dark land, killing anything he found.

  
  


He'd never found anything like this before.

  
  


The three little wolves stared back at him, utterly shocked by his sudden appearance. Tilting his head, the Gondor wolf woofed softly. The blue-eyed wolf, who looked no older than a pup, woofed back and wagged his tail. 

  
  


Gollum was still lying on his side from where Sam had thrown him. Terrified by this gigantic wolf, he twisted to his feet and raced off like a ghost across the tundra, back towards the East.

  
  


Advancing cautiously, Frodo touched his nose to Faramir. He smelled... Boromir. The scent was unmistakable. Boromir had long traveled with this wolf, that much was clear. This wolf must be the Gondor warrior's kin, and therefore, an ally. With a yip of excitement, Frodo nuzzled the larger animal happily.

  
  


For a moment, Sam still stood with his head turned to the direction their 'guide' had fled. But when his young alpha called, he obediently loped to his side.

  
  


Faramir studied the two Hobbit wolves carefully. Unsure of their origin, he sniffed them for any information. A familiar scent tickled his sensitive nostrils. Boromir, his brother. These wolves, then, were automatically considered friends. Shaking his ruff in a gesture of relaxation, he told them not to fear. Then he turned to lead them back to Gondor territory.

  
  


Glancing back to the East, Frodo whimpered uncertainly, giving the Gondor wolf pause. Sitting on his rump, Faramir pondered the situation. He had heard a rumor on the voice of the Lorien pack that a group of wolves was headed for the East to fight the Great Hunter. But only two small creatures stood before him. 

  
  


But what else could they be? And if they sought the Great Hunter, was not Faramir's own grudge against that monster? His only option was to help them.

  
  


Barking smartly, Faramir signaled his understanding and loped off in the direction of Mordor. Immediately, the two Hobbit wolves leapt to his side and kept pace with him.

  
  


The three moved closer to the shadowed East.

  
  


~

  
  


For two days they traveled with Faramir. Frodo trusted him implicitly, but Sam was not so sure. He was wary of all things now, terrified that some assassin would slip under his nose and murder his charge. And that would be death for him as well, as he could not go on without the one he swore his loyalty to. 

  
  


As they went, they saw the scattered tracks of Gollum, as he sped ahead of them and unconsciously laid out a trail to follow. Faramir was interested in these marks, and was anxious to catch up with the other wolf. Upping the pace, he urged the other two on.

  
  


Eventually, they came to a rare sight in the tundra. A patch of sunlight, a spot of warmth, and a hot water spring created a waterfall in the middle of snow. It was as they drew near this that Faramir ordered the Hobbit wolves to freeze. All three dropped to the ground and watched.

  
  


Presently, Frodo and Sam also spied what the larger wolf had already seen. Gollum himself was swimming in the pool, tossing his head to rid himself of the scent of the Hunter. He drank and paddled around, his yellow eyes almost closed in the state of peace he had found.

  
  


Faramir growled softly. He didn't like the sight of that wolf, not at all. Starting to rise, he made to lunge at the creature, but Frodo stopped him with a whimper. Not yet, he said.

  
  


The noise was enough, and Gollum's head snapped in their direction, alert. Ears swiveling, he clambered out of the pool and shook off the droplets, his eyes pinned on their hiding place.

  
  


Before Sam could react, Frodo was out in the open walking towards Gollum, who stood frozen at his approach. And then, the skinny wolf crept slowly in the direction of the pup, wagging his tail cautiously. Frodo also waved his tail in friendship.

  
  


Sam couldn't take it. Looking at Gollum, he saw only danger, and that danger was walking right towards his master. That couldn't be tolerated. Nudging Faramir hard, Sam threw him out in the open.

  
  


Seeing no other option than the one he initially planned, the big wolf rolled the momentum and used it to carry him to Gollum, throwing the smaller animal to the ground and pinning him easily. The grey wolf shrieked like he was being murdered, his eyes going huge and pupils dilating as he threw a wild, accusatory glare at Frodo. 

  
  


Teeth clamped around Gollum's wriggling throat, Faramir glanced curiously at the alpha pup for reaction. The big blue eyes were full of sorrow and pain as he watched Gollum struggle, and Frodo whined softly for his release. Against Sam's snarling orders not to do so, Faramir lifted his grip and let Gollum roll to the side.

  
  


Instantly, Gollum was on his feet and trembling like a leaf in a strong wind, staggering about in one place and with ears pressed flat against the back of his head. Whimpering, he glared again at Frodo and then at Faramir, and finally his burning gaze settled on Sam, who shifted restlessly under it.

  
  


Growling softly, Faramir looked at Frodo and said plainly, 'Do not trust him'. But Frodo had a sympathetic heart, and Gollum had come to him obediently only to be tricked. It was not fair, in his simple puppy mind.

  
  


Trotting towards Gollum in a gesture of peace, Frodo grunt-whined and said 'I am your friend'. Still jittery, the scrawny wolf danced out of the way, but didn't run. He seemed to want to trust Frodo again, but a deep, inner sense told him not to. Not wanting to frighten him further, the pup sat down and watched.

  
  


For agonizing minutes the four remained in that tableau, Faramir still standing and confused, Sam bristling, Frodo sitting, and Gollum barely leaning towards the pup but still not moving. 

  
  


At last, Gollum slithered to Frodo's side. Faramir growled uncertainly, and the grey wolf promptly flipped over on his back. 'I surrender myself to this pup'. It was a message that Faramir could not attack after hearing. He shot Sam a look. 

  
  


Advancing, Sam moved towards his alpha. Like a lighting bolt, Gollum shot forward and bared his teeth, raising his thin fur in an attempt to be menacing. After posing for a moment, he raced back to Frodo and whimpered, tugging his shoulder. His language was clear:

  
  


'Let's continue alone. We don't need him.'

  
  


Sam was hurt by the silence that followed, but then Frodo refused to travel without the beta, and he was heartened. With a proud stride, he took his place at his alpha's right. 

  
  


As confused as he was by these peculiar antics, Faramir managed to come to the conclusion that a farewell was in order. He surely could not travel all the way into Mordor with them; Denethor was alone and still waiting for Boromir's return. Lifting his tail like a bushy flag, Faramir barked his goodbye. Pausing, he turned and sent a meaningful look to Gollum:

  
  


'If I see you without the pup, I will kill you.'

  
  


Understanding, Gollum cringed to the ground, but managed a thin, defiant growl. 

  
  


Rearing on his hind legs, Faramir plunged back in the direction of the West, his voice lifted in a song that spoke comfort to the two Hobbit wolves. Their guide, however, merely barked shrilly at it and turned swiftly to the East once more.

  
  


Sighing, Frodo and Sam had no choice but to follow him.

  
  


~

  
  


For days they sped at an unrelenting pace, Gollum always in the lead with his knowledge of the path. Nights seemed to be getting longer, Frodo noticed sadly, and the songs he and Sam sent to the moon begged for the sun to rise again.

  
  


Only once did Gollum sing with the other two. The moon was merely a sliver of light in the dark night sky, and Frodo and Sam howled for the goodness they once knew to return. And then a mournful, heart-breaking voice was lifted with theirs, so wrenching and tragic that both stopped singing at once and stared. Gollum stared back, his yellow eyes wide and bright. Shivering, he trotted to his usual sleep spot away from the group and curled up into a tight ball. And that was the end of that.

  
  


Still the dark land drew nearer, until suddenly there was no more Moria left to run through, and they stood on the ground of Mordor itself.

  
  


Gollum had led them directly to it's gate, and Sam and Frodo could only stare.

  
  


Unknown factories sent smoke belching into the sky, and one particularly vast smoke column arose from the factory of Orodruin, the very heart of Mordor and soul of all it's weaponry and transports. The gate itself was a monstrous affair, solid as steel but yet made of some material so black and dense it could not be of any known thing. Deep tracks were cut in the snow, slashing across the landscape, from Orcs and snowmobiles and Nazgul. And a gigantic, concrete wall stretched as far as the eye could see, ridged with barbed wire at the top.

  
  


The wolves stood at the gates of Hell.

  
  


Terror held him for a moment, but then hard determination seized Frodo and he marched forward, seeing only the need to destroy the Hunter and not the peril of his own life. Doggedly, Sam followed.

  
  


At once, Gollum was in front of them, yipping and whining and dancing in place with fear. It was clear that he did not want them here. But then where could they go? Frodo went around him and continued, but the skinny wolf threw himself on the ground at the alpha pup's feet, all but howling in agony.

  
  


Uncertainly, Frodo barked for him to stand. He was obeyed, and Gollum fidgeted before his blue eyes. Suddenly, the grey wolf stood straight and sped towards the South, beckoning frantically for them to follow.

  
  


His message became unclear, however, when he abruptly dropped to the ground and yelped for them to do the same. They dropped and looked to the gate.

  
  


It was opening

  
  


The massive metal walls opened, and a black snowmobile roared out and paused. Atop it sat the lead of the Nazgul, trained by the Hunter himself and wearing the terrible symbol of the Red Eye across his breast. Infrared goggles under his ski mask made his eyes appear red and glowing. After sitting and gazing for a moment, he kicked his machine into motion and sped outward. Four more Nazgul sped after him, bound for the Battle of the Deep. 

  
  


Frodo and Sam trembled, while Gollum writhed silently in the snow. At last, the vision of evil faded from view, and the gates swung shut.

  
  


Again, Gollum raced to the South, barking for them to follow. So far, he had proved reliable guide. Perhaps he knew another way. Frodo fell in step behind him, with Sam right on his heels. 

  
  


They hardly traveled for an hour when disaster struck.

  
  


One moment Frodo was running swiftly across the tundra, the next his body was snapping suddenly in the air, and then falling softly to the ground.

  
  


In an instant Sam was at his side, gazing in horror at the monster before him. A trap it was, padded on the inside to prevent tearing off the leg of it's victim, but still mean and strong. The serial number 'SH3L08' was printed on its' jaws in garish red type. 

  
  


It held Frodo's right foreleg in a rigid clamp.

  
  


Whining and squirming, Frodo tried in vain to free himself from 'SH3L08's grasp. It was useless. Howling in agony, Sam set about attempting to bite through the trap, but succeeded only in receiving bloody gums. Gollum stood near, stiff as a statue.

  
  


Sam turned his hateful eyes on the scrawny wolf. This was his fault. He had led them this way, straight into danger. Springing from his position, teeth bared and claws flashing, the beta threw himself towards Gollum with raw fury.

  
  


Reacting quickly, the grey wolf spun and fled, Sam in hot pursuit. They curved around a hill and lost from Frodo's sight. The loyal beta saw only this enemy, in such desperate need of punishment...

  
  


Suddenly, Sam skidded to a halt. He heard a snowmobile. And even worse... he heard Frodo yelping in terror. 

  
  


Swift in his fear and regret for living his alpha alone, Sam raced back in the direction of the cries, barking and whining. Whirling around the corner and speeding at once to where 'SH3L08' lay, he found the trap empty. Snowmobile tracks led back towards the direction of the gate.

  
  


Throwing a cursing wail after Gollum, who still ran, Sam turned his attention to the walls of Mordor.

  
  


His alpha had been taken by the darkness.

  
  


  
  
  
  


~ To Be Continued

  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Splitting Up and Meeting Gondor

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: A thousand apologies for the long wait. Back from SC (NOOO!), still settling in, and 'Return of the King' is a hard book to convert into wolf-speak!

JastaElf- Your review just made my day! I'm just… well, utterly flattered and honored to be receiving such compliments. I hope the rest of the story keeps you duly impressed.

Amarth- At first the type on the trap was to read 'SHELOB 175', but then I saw how much spookier it would be if the name Shelob was not actually spelled, but seen.

TK and frodolover- Yipes! *clutches Frodo and Sam wolves* I need them! They're not available for adoption! Back! Back, I say! 

All my reviewers- Thanks a million for your support! 

~

            Westward, action was being taken.

            The Great Pack, over a dozen wolves in total, was rested up after the Battle of the Deep. Although the agony of loss was still fresh and painful, their physical strength had been recovered and they were ready for action.

            Gandalf and Treebeard had spoken at length, and the Ent volunteered to lead his herd into Mordor from the South, should their help be needed once more. The giant moose lumbered off on their course, Merry and Pippin barking excitedly after them.

            Again, the alphas held council. Only Glorfindel was still shaken by the fact that he was taking orders from Elrond the Loner, but looking closely at the black wolf, the Imladris alpha saw that leadership had always been within, merely hidden from the view of others.

            It was decided that they should split up. Aragorn, Legolas, Eomer, and Eowyn would take a more Northern route to Mordor, while the others cut straight through Gondor territory and allied with the local pack.

            A tender farewell occurred between Arwen and Aragorn, while Eowyn watched silently. Yet hope sprung in her youthful heart, for she saw the opportunity laid by Arwen's imminent separation from her love, in which the Rohan female would be at his side. 

            Heads tilted to the wind, Elrond and Galadriel stood side-by-side and listened to the rhythm of the tundra. In ordinary wolf custom, had he not been an outcast, once he had mated her daughter he would have been considered like her own pup. This relationship had not had a chance to form between them, and yet the bond lingered there by blood. 

            She could sense him deep within, and he felt her as well, a link founded not only by their blood relation by their gift of the elder mind. Both possessed the faint ability of foresight, and each was touched in a kindred feeling that no other wolf could understand.     

            The trance was broken as Elrond turned his head slowly from the horizon, meeting her cool blue eyes with his clear green ones. Electricity passed between them… 

            And then the two exploded into motion. Leaping from his place, Elrond raced to the East, singing a song of hope and strength. The others sang with him, Pippin, Glorfindel, and Arwen bursting from the ranks to run at his side. The rest of the pack would follow at a slower pace, while Elrond raced ahead to tell of their coming.

            Galadriel watched her 'pup' run, head high like royalty and black ruff dancing in the breeze, and for the first time in years she realized Celebrian had been right. 

            Shaking herself, she led her group off onto the trail towards Mordor at a brisk trot, sending a call of good luck towards Aragorn and his small pack. They barked a response, and then glanced to the North.

            It was time for the muster of Rohan. Their small forces would never prevail. And Gandalf, who flew with them, knew one place where hidden allies still lay. 

            The Paths of the Dead. 

            ~

            Swift as moonbeams dancing across the sky, Elrond led his followers across the land of Gondor. At first, it had surprised him to see Pippin running along. But the Hobbit wolf ran confidently, and Elrond could not turn him away.

            The landscape flew by, hardly distinguishable from the sky that merged with its' horizon. And still the wolves ran, until they encountered at last the pack of Gondor.

            Out of nowhere, a muddy brown form shot into their path, making Glorfindel stop so fast he fell onto his side. Arwen and Pippin were more fortunate, only stumbling in their sudden halt. Elrond, out of all them, drew to a stop gracefully, hardly batting an eye as he sized up their shocking visitor.

            It was Denethor, and yet not. In his wanderings, Elrond had known the Gondor alpha to be a stern leader, wise and powerful, lever-headed and cool. This wolf, however, was a bit jumpy, and his head wasn't at the proud angle the Half-breed had known. But it was Denethor; his scent-flag hadn't changed, although a dose of anxiety was added to it. And another scent… something disturbing that Elrond couldn't quite place…

            He lost his train of thought when the young Faramir came trotting up alongside his father, who stood with staring eyes leveled at the wolves that stood on his territory. Immediately, the young male of the Gondor pack scanned this gathering to see if his brother Boromir had yet returned. Nothing. He sighed audibly, and Elrond quirked an eyebrow at him.

            With a small whimper, Faramir asked politely for news of his wandering brother. He was answered when Pippin suddenly gave a guttural moan, and with a quavering howl announced that the Son of Gondor was no more. 

            And it was then that chaos broke out.

            Shrieking, Denethor bucked in the air and snapped his teeth. With a mad lunge, he threw himself at Elrond and got a hold on the stunned wolf's neck. Elrond would have been killed then had Glorfindel not attacked and thrown the Gondor alpha to the side.

            Instantly, the brown wolf was on his feet, throwing back his head and howling a call… the call for Boromir. Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged confused looks. 

            Meanwhile, Faramir was staring with curiosity at Pippin. The little wolf reminded him very much of… an image came into his mind at the same time a scent-memory did. He woofed the call for Frodo and Sam.

            Head snapping around, Elrond was in front of Faramir at once, his eyes burning with the intensity of battle, and something more.

            -Frodo and Sam are alive? You've seen them? In Moria?-

            Faramir whined an affirmative response.

            Sighing with a relief that emanated from the core of his being, Elrond hung his head as a wolf smile split his face. The Hobbit wolves lived. At the beginning he had known that their death would doom all of Arda. And yet they survived still, heading for the dark land as Elrond himself had seen. 

            Quite a different reaction came from Pippin, and the little wolf leapt into the air and squeaked with joy. His pup-friend was alive, and good old Sam, too! The news was too great to imagine, and he danced in the snow, kicking up little flurries. Arwen nipped at the falling flakes, her spirits lifted by this innocent display of joy.

            Elrond too was heartened, and he repeated the dance, kicking up far more snow than a mere flurry, and in fact coating Glorfindel in a thin sheet of white. Retaliating, the Imladris alpha threw a pawful of snow up at the black wolf, but Elrond ducked and it instead hit Pippin.

            Merriment broke out as the wolves got into an all-out snow fight, scuffing up the cold white and throwing at each other like pups. In any other situation, this would have been shaming for Elrond or Glorfindel. But this was a time in which play was a must, or a wolf could go mad from stress, his body shifting into overload and the adrenaline killing him. 

            Faramir watched, his mouth hanging open in a wolf grin, while Denethor paced and bristled his fur. 

            Finally, the wolves tired of their game and shook the snow from their coats. Turning his sparkling green eyes to the Gondor pack, Elrond spoke.

            -So hope remains, and the chances of victory grow stronger.-

            Nodding, Faramir woofed the final name he remembered from his encounter.

            Gollum.

            Snarling, Denethor turned his gaze on his son. He remembered Gollum… it was he who had seen the little creature on his borders, and it was he who had chased the terrified grey wolf back into Moria where he would lay hidden till the arrival of Frodo and Sam. With a flash of his teeth, Denethor growled his displeasure, and Faramir cowered uncertainly.

            Sensing the tension, and being trained in the diplomatic ways by the time she had spent with her father, Arwen barked lightly and spoke of the beauty of the Gondor territory. Argument forgotten, Denethor's chest swelled with pride and he lifted his head, appearing again as the king he had once been.

            Following his daughter's lead and shooting her a wink, Elrond continued with a flattering whimper that spoke of the Gondor packs strength. Making the necessary eye contact with Denethor, the black wolf spoke in a smooth tone.

            -It is precisely that strength that we need in or assault of Mordor. Join us. Assist us in defeating the Great Hunter, and your lands will be safe forever more.-

            At the words 'defeat the Great Hunter', Faramir sprang at once to Elrond's side with a confident bark, fully prepared to face death in order to conquer the ultimate enemy. 

            Denethor, however, was distrustful, and eyed Elrond suspiciously. The black wolf continued.

            -Our allies will be arriving soon, and we wish to form an allegiance with your might pack in order to be completely unified against our terrible foe.-

            After a moment, Denethor shrugged his furry shoulders and nodded, giving his tail a brief wave of friendship. Elrond followers exchanged hopeful glances.

            An ally had been found.

            But when Elrond turned his back, Denethor's eyes glinted, and again that sickly, disturbing scent was clear, but snatched away by the wind…

~ To Be Continued 


	13. The Paths of the Dead

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: It's been a while, but I've been brainstorming! Anyway, I LOVE all my reviewers, and this chapter is dedicated to all of you! Yay! You'll see a mention of Bergil being Beregond's brother… yes, I know in the books it's his son! But in wolf law, only the alpha would have pups! So, brothers! Yes. Anyway. Please enjoy…

            Chapter Thirteen

~

            They stayed with the Gondor pack waiting for the arrival of their original group. Elrond had run faster than he'd estimated; the remainder of his wolves was still a distance away.

            So they passed a few days with Denethor and Faramir, doing little or nothing to pass the time. Arwen napped or gazed to the North, Glorfindel spoke long with Faramir of various battle strategies. As for himself, Elrond attempted repeatedly to pull Denethor aside for war talk. And always the Gondor alpha loped away, to hunt, or speak with his son, or simply gaze at the sun as though the fiery orb had captured his very soul.

            On a lonely hill, Pippin mourned. He was alone, and desperately missing his beta-friend Merry. There were no pups in the Gondor pack, seeing as Faramir had been the smallest, and he was now a young adult. Lifting his eyes to the sky, Pippin gave a sad little howl. 

            But Merry was too far away to hear him.

            ~

            Northward, a battle was being fought.

            Not a battle of physical strength. Not a battle of Orcs and Nazgul pitted against wolves. No, this was a battle against instincts.

            Wolves are fine-tuned animals, so much so that their body reacts almost involuntarily when placed in danger. A wolf will seldom walk directly into death, as his senses warn him strongly against it.

            Aragorn, Legolas, Eomer, and Eowyn stood poised at the Paths of the Dead. While they knew they must pass within, their instincts screamed for them to run, turn tail on that horrible place and head for safety. The urge to flee was so powerful that Eomer stood trembling.

            Ears swiveling and tail stiff with fear, it was Legolas who first ventured forward. He walked a few slow paces into the Paths…

            And vanished from sight.

            The Paths of the Dead was actually a valley, the walls on either side stretching impossibly high that even the sharp-eyed Elven wolf could not see their tops. And the Path itself twisted and turned, almost doubling back on itself as it wound its' way through the impossible cragginess of its' borders.

            So it was that when Legolas advanced into them, a sudden turn carried him from view. Bolstered by the courage of their companion, and also fearing to be separated, the other three leapt forward as though they had been jolted into motion by a lightning bolt.

            They quickly caught up with him; brave as he was, he was still instinctively told to advance with caution, as were they all, and they walked very slowly and tentatively, as though their paws might disturb some ancient ghost.

            It was called the Paths of the Dead for good reason. The terrifying walls, full of ledges and crannies, were decorated with the bodies and skeletons of wolves lost. Skulls hung from necks that were connected only by fragments of what had once been flesh. Ribcages formed bizarre framework over rotted forelegs and tailbones. 

            Eowyn shrunk at once to Aragorn's side, but he saw this as an unwelcome advance and shrugged her off, too distracted by his own gnawing horror to notice her own genuine fear. Shaking, she retreated to the side of her brother, who rested his head on her back for a comforting moment. He recognized the corpse of Bergil, who had been Beregond's brother, searching for new territory, never returning. 

            Light itself seemed to be swallowed up, leaving the darkness of night at the peak of the day, and an eternal mist seemed enshrouded around the place, settling like a tomb.

            Side by side, Aragorn and Legolas moved deeper and deeper into this forbidden place, eyes scanning the walls nervously. The ghosts of Numenors seemed to glare at them from empty black sockets, eyes burning with accusations of foreign deaths. 

            And then real eyes were watching them.

            Legolas saw them only. By the time he barked a warning the mystery had vanished. Lifting his head, Aragorn glanced up and down where Legolas had indicated. He saw nothing. 

            The little group had hardly turned a corner when they were surrounded.

            Dozens, at least a hundred little foxes! Arctic foxes, their large ears erect and scruffy fur bristling threateningly. They littered the shelves and perches carved into the ancient stone walls, their green eyes flashing with fury and menace. Ordinarily they would be harmless, but in these numbers they could be lethal.

            These were the Naugrim, long forgotten inhabitants of the tundra, remembered by none and feared by those that ventured into this valley, those that would never return. For the Naugrim could attack in unrelenting quantity, swarming about their prey and killing it almost instantly. Then the feast was dragged into the rocks, and as it rotted the Naugrim consumed it.

            Slowly, the little creatures came slinking down the rocks, their paws seeming to cling to the stony surface. And before anyone could blink, they had lunged. A swarm of them swept over Legolas, and he was down on the floor writhing in an instant, yowling as thousands of tiny teeth ripped into his skin.

            An eagle cry split the air overhead.

            As abruptly as they had attacked, the Naugrim retreated, crouching in clusters on the floor, not quite hidden and yet still difficult to see in the shadows.

            Gandalf flew down from the sky, easily ducking in from the narrow sliver of sky overhead, and landing with a show on Aragorn's back, as he had so often done for the great leader Elrond. The Numenor male was honored deeply by this small gesture.

            The spirit of the tundra turned his fiery gaze to the Naugrim, and his mind spoke to them.

            -Your aid is needed, lost children of the tundra. Arise and come forth once more, and help us in our most desperate hour as we unite as one to defeat the Great Hunter.-

            Two sentences were all he needed. The leader of the Naugrim, known as Gimli, stepped forward and inspected this ragtag pack carefully. Though he had little reason to leave his dark and deep homeground, he felt a call within him that insisted he would be needed. He glanced back to his old father, Gloin, once leader.

            The old fox knew at once that there were no questions. Walking forward, a bit stiffly from age, but still proud, he whined an affirmative response. Gimli jumped forward and seconded the motion.

            Carefully, the Naugrim crept from their hiding places, blinking with wonder at the wolves before them. Scrambling to his feet, Legolas delicately leaned his weight on three legs, one of them ripped by small teeth. It did not go unnoticed, and Aragorn frowned. Legolas was a prime warrior; if he was wounded, it could mean serious trouble.

            Eomer and Eowyn exchanged uncertain glances. She also had seen the face of Bergil, frozen in the mask of death, and her heart was heavy. But she thought of her handsome Aragorn, though he paid her no heed, and she was strengthened. If Aragorn said it was right, it must be so. She advanced to his side. Seeing his sister joining, Eomer saw no reason to hesitate.

            Joined together, the four wolves continued onwards towards the exit of the smothering darkness. And as they walked, they could not see, but heard the invisible following of the Naugrim.

            Though allies were formed, the Paths of the Dead kept their name, and still the faceless ghosts of the fallen glared at them, pressing on them with unseen darkness.

            At last, the end was reached, and the four wolves stepped gratefully into the light and trotted out into the little bowl in the earth, a great stone at its' center. This Stone was like a great black globe, half of it buried in the ground so that only a portion of it stood in sight. 

            Legolas leaned against this monument, while Eomer and Eowyn stood in its' shade while their eyes adjusted to the brightness of day once more. Meanwhile, Aragorn turned to the Paths of the Dead, and in the powerful voice of some mighty alpha of old, he thundered a command to the Naugrim.

            Terrified, they nonetheless could not resist the awesome summon, and obediently they crept into the light they had cowered from for so long. With timid steps they advanced towards the Stone, and there they waited before Aragorn, his ruff raised slightly like a great cape and his head lifted with pride and dignity. 

            Here, before the Stone, Gandalf soared above, and with the great cry of an eagle announced that here stood the rightful King of the Tundra, chosen by the wise to rule all and be obeyed by every creature that walked on this land.

            And it was here that Legolas, awestruck by the vision of power that stood before him in the form of a wolf he had once known, was moved. Bending one foreleg to the ground, he lowered his head in a kneeling bow before the King. Eomer bowed, and Eowyn knelt reverently.

            And as if in a slow-moving massive wave, all the Naugrim knelt, leaving a sea of furry brown heads inclined towards Aragorn in respect. 

            Time seemed to slow on this intense scene, and the wind lightly teased at the fur of those who knelt in awe. Aragorn himself was so moved he could not find strength to step forward, or do anything.

            Leaping in the air and arching his back, Eomer sang a loud and triumphant song of victory and the King that had returned. Throwing back her head, Eowyn harmonized, and Legolas soared to the highest note. The three voices sang with joy, and slid effortlessly around the musical scale, telling the world and all who would listen. The Naugrim contributed their yipping barks to the chorus, adding a rhythm all their own.

            Long and proud this continued. At last, the setting sun crested atop the Stone, and the reflection cast a halo of light about Aragorn's head, so that all fell on their knees once more.

            The King of the Tundra had been revealed. 

~ To Be Continued 


	14. The Siege of Gondor

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Another tough chapter to write. Because it's another battle scene! Tough stuff, that. Tolkien is brilliant to have written so many and made them all different. Anyway… 

Tathar- Calm down. Ever read the books? Frodo and Sam don't come back for a little while yet.

JastaElf- Aragorn would be a healer, but how would a wolf heal people? Darn. That would have been cool, though.

Tenshiamanda- Why did I injure Legolas? Well, I wanted to show the destructive capabilities of the Naugrim, and since the Dwarves and Elves don't like each other, Legolas seemed the natural target. 

TK- Glad the story is so powerful to you. I got all worked up writing that scene.

Amarth- Wolf corpses, yes. It had to be the Paths of the Dead for a reason, and wolf ghosts just didn't work for me.  

Okay, enough chattering from me. Now, what you've all been waiting for!

            Chapter Fourteen

~

            Sunlight barely made it to the ground that day; the sky was so clustered and streaked with clouds. Only the occasional patch of light illuminated the cold earth, and tension crackled on the air.

            Elrond and Glorfindel spoke long of the impending march to Mordor, wondering also why their Pack had not arrived yet. A little ways away, Pippin was moping on a hilltop while Arwen slept next to him, hoping to comfort the Hobbit wolf. Denethor and Faramir were nowhere to be seen.

            Suddenly, Faramir came exploding over the horizon, his voice screeching in warning and terror. Gunshots kicked up the dirt behind him, and the other wolves were on their feet in an instant. Flying past them Faramir, howling for them to follow, and follow they did. 

            Shooting across the tundra in fear and confusion, Elrond chanced a look back over his shoulder. It was a mere glance, but he saw enough. The Enemy was moving, and Gondor could not hold out against it alone. Barking a command to Arwen, he bade her break off from the pack and run for the reinforcements that lingered on the trail.

            Obediently, the Elven female pressed her ears back and fled, her long legs stretching out as she poured on speed and winked from sight.

            Still the Gondor pack ran, at last pouring into a canyon that Faramir had long known was there. One end was blocked up entirely, creating a narrow channel with high walls and only one way in. However, moments after they entered the hideout, Glorfindel realized the tactical error and cried aloud.

            Four Nazgul perched up above the canyon walls, peering down through their infrared goggles with rifles in their hands. With a yelp, Elrond commanded that all take cover. The wolves complied, pressing their slender bodies under whatever slight overhang they could find, even as gunfire rained down into the canyon. 

            Glorfindel made a run for the opening, to risk an escape to seek help. However, a wall of Orcs blocked the exit. Curiously, the Orcs did not advance into the channel, but remained without, keeping the wolves within. The Imladris alpha returned and reported the grievous news.

            Gondor was trapped in a siege.

            And their only hope lay with a young female sprinting across the tundra for reinforcements. 

            ~

            Arwen ran, ran as fast as she ever had in her life, her mouth gaping open to allow air to rush into her lungs. The speed blinded her and her eyes watered, but she thought only of the wolves she had left behind in the grip of death.

            And she thought of Aragorn.

            When it felt that her legs would falter or give out, she thought only of her beloved alpha and her strength was renewed. She wondered where he was, and if he was all right…

            Quite unexpectedly she whipped around a great rock and collided with Celeborn.

            The Lorien male tumbled backwards from the force of the impact, and he instinctively flipped his 'attacker' over his head with his powerful hid legs. So it was that Arwen was dumped quite unceremoniously at Galadriel's feet.

            At once the older female knew that something was terribly wrong, for Elrond would not let his pup go running about in times of danger for no good reason. Nuzzling Arwen, she whimpered the urgent question of what was the matter.

            Breathless and exhausted, the black female lay panting on the ground, trying to catch her air again. At last she blurted out a call for help, a cry of need to the East.

            In an instant Galadriel commanded her pack into motion. Her soft eyes turned to Arwen and insisted that she remain here, to regain her strength. Maternal instincts had clicked in the alpha female, and she did not wish to see the pup she considered her on the battlefield again.

            Before the pack could go five feet, Haldir whirled on Merry and commanded him to stay. He saw no use for the little wolf, and certainly didn't want the pack's speed to be hindered by him. Merry sent a pleading call after Galadriel, but she agreed with her beta's motives. The Hobbit wolf would only slow them down. 

            And so a very forlorn Merry and a spent Arwen flopped out in the snow side by side, watching as the pack sped onwards in hopes of relieving the Gondor pack before it was too late.

            ~

            But the road ahead was difficult for such a large pack to maneuver. Elrond and his small party had easily navigated tight quarters and perilous crossings. But here, the might of the Great Pack was a strong disadvantage.

            Carefully and one by one they eased across a narrow log fallen across a ravine. Slowly and delicately they slid across an iced-over lake that could crack at any moment under their weight.

            So it was that the help was greatly delayed, and no hope seemed to remain for Gondor in its' state of siege.

            ~

            Night drew on, and still the bullets rained like hellfire into the canyon where Gondor lay hidden. Sparks were flying from the rocks, ricocheting down onto them and frightening some out of their wits.

            That frightened one was Pippin, as a great terror clutched at his heart while doom fell from the sky. Every so often a bullet would strike near his body, and he would cry out in agony as though he had been struck. And each time he would realize it was not so, even as Elrond barked in alarm from his unseen hiding place.

            In truth, Pippin could not see where any of the others were, save Glorfindel, as his brilliant golden coat was clearly visible to the eyes of any wolf, even in the dark. Faramir was somewhere nearby, as his voice always seemed to be very close whenever he howled for his father. Elrond himself none could see, for his coat was as black as night and he remained for the most part silent. Pippin guessed that he was somewhere across the canyon, for his voice sounded the furthest away.

            Still the guns showed no sign of stopping, and still the alpha Denethor was nowhere to be seen. The moon was now high in the sky, and the stars twinkled, though they remained mostly smothered under a thick blanket of clouds. 

            In a burst of movement Denethor came flying over the blocked edge of the canyon, skittering frantically down inside to entomb himself with the rest rather than search for help. He had climbed up the opposite side of the blocking, and now he entered, heedless of the bullets that ate up the rocks at his feet.

            Springing from the darkness to greet his father, Faramir did not realize the tempting target his pale brown coat made in the darkness…

One of the bullets made its' shot.

            With a yelp Faramir dropped to the ground, skidding across the floor of the canyon from the force of his run. Immediately Elrond leapt from his safety, white teeth shining in the black as he seized the young Gondor male by the ruff and dragged him back under cover.

            Although bullets continued to fire, it seemed as though silence had fallen. Anxiously Elrond nuzzled Faramir's side, and he received a weak whimper in response. The Half-breed turned his burning green eyes on Denethor.

            The Gondor alpha was crouched just a little ways away, his tail wagging absurdly at the grim sight and tongue lolling out from the running. With a sharp bark Elrond reprimanded his foolishness, but he was ignored.

            Pippin whined fearfully in the dark. 

            Throwing his head back, Denethor howled a challenge to the moon and stars, and was answered by a rain of gunfire. Then with a snort of disgust he flatly announced the doom of them all. In his scouting he had seen no sign of the reinforcements, and had thus concluded that help would never come at all. Glorfindel snarled in argument, but he, too, did not receive an answer from the Numenor male. 

            As the murky dawn gradually gave them dim light to see by, hope still had not appeared. And it was then that a horrible sound was heard.

            The Orcs were advancing into the canyon. 

            Standing straight and tall, Elrond hoarsely ordered them into position to attack. A glance upwards revealed that the Nazgul had vanished, so at least no bullets threatened them from above. 

            Elrond, Glorfindel, and Pippin marched down the channel to meet the foe. Denethor trotted along behind them, but seemed little interested in battle. And Faramir they left tucked under an overhang, hidden from danger.

            The two forces met, but even as the three wolves prepared to attack, the Orcs drew back. Angrily the wolves advanced, and still the foe back-pedaled. Elrond then realized that they were being led out into the open.

            So be it.

            When at last they reached the end of the canyon, they saw that hundreds of Orcs were spread before them, greedily awaiting the army of three. Elrond was about to give the attack cry…

            When someone else did.

            The Great Pack had come at last.          

~ To Be Continued 


	15. Pelennor Fields and the Pyre of Denethor

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Yes, another chapter at long last. Took me long enough, right? Love you all, my dear, dear reviewers. 

            Chapter Fifteen

~

            The Orcs hardly had time to turn around before the wolves sliced into their ranks from behind. Long bodies sailing over the hill and into the fray, the Great Pack drove into the enemy like a knife plunging into an evil hide. Tumbling about in the chaos, the Orcs barked and yelped in the confusion, the original army of three suddenly multiplying to unbelievable strength. 

            Elrond, Glorfindel, and Pippin were heartened. Throwing back their heads for an answering howl, they leapt into the battle with a renewed hope that also renewed their strength. 

            Each wolf fought with a different battle tactic. For Haldir, it was speed, and a speed that was ruthless and terrible to see. He knew exactly where to strike to cause instant death in the victim, and his years of running races had shaped his legs into rapid pistons.

            The battle tactic of Galadriel, however, was far different. She utilized agility, and would simply spring into the air and come down hard on her attacker. Although she had not fought in many years, the talent and skill had not left her and she slew Orcs by the dozens. 

            In the thick of the fight, Elrond longed for the strength of Legolas and Aragorn, two of the best warriors he had known. The battle would have been easily tipped in their favor had the vicious pair been present. But they were somewhere to the North, somewhere beyond the call of the Pack. And then he noticed.

            Where was Arwen?

            Immediately the adrenaline spiraled to Elrond's mind. Had she been slain in her flight? Was she injured and unable to join the battle? Had she been captured? The panic of fatherly instincts raised his fighting skills to their ultimate and prime, and the Orcs around him fell as though knocked over by a hurricane. 

            At last he was at Galadriel's side. With a desperate whine, he asked her where his daughter was. But she could not answer, for the Orcs seemed to rise in a wave, threatening to smother them all. 

            It wasn't until Galdor fell dead that they realized the Nazgul again were firing on them. Long silencers gleamed on the ends of their weapons, hiding the telltale sound from the wolves until it was too late. At once Glorfindel sprang to his pack mates' side, but Galdor was already gone and going cold. 

            Fear shot through the wolves as silent terror rained into their ranks, only made clear when an explosion of dust kicked up the dirt at their feet. Orcs screamed and writhed as the bullets ate into them, the Nazgul once again firing at anything and everything that moved. 

            It was living hell, bullets flying and Orcs snarling with a bloodlust that was horrifying to see. Crouching as a unit, a small group of the wretched beasts threw themselves up and onto Celeborn, rolling the Lorien male to his back with their force. Arching and kicking, he managed to throw two of them off with the same move that had tossed Arwen only a day before. But the Orcs were smothering him, their teeth ripping into his flesh and their claws tearing at his fur.

            A lithe form burst into the midst of them, faster than lightning and with the force of thunder. It was Haldir, and by his ferocity was Celeborn saved, and the alpha struggled to his feet, for the first time in debt to his beta. 

            While the Pack held the battle and prevented the advance of the enemy, Pippin fled back into the valley and decided to wait it out in safety. Fighting at the last battle had been one thing. There had been Ents and more wolves and even Gandalf. But here… here everything was much more uncertain, and the tables were on a much more delicate balance.

            Ears twisting, the little Hobbit wolf suddenly heard a sound father along the canyon. Was it Faramir, struggling to rise though his injury kept him at bay? With his curiosity aroused, Pippin trotted down the corridor and peered around the rocky corner.

            Denethor!

            The old alpha snuffled around the floor, as though following some invisible scent trail. After a moment of this, he jumped in the air and clawed twice at the cold earth. Then he shook out his mangy coat and sat down, breathing hard. In his hiding place, Pippin trembled.

            At length, Denethor rose to his feet and padded over to where his son lay. Faramir looked up at the older wolf with trusting eyes. The alpha smiled back, wagging his tail stiffly, encouraging his pup to sleep. Obediently, Faramir lay down his head and closed his eyes, his wound preventing him from doing anything else.

            Once the eyes were closed, Denethor leaned oddly over the younger wolf and let his jaw hang slack. Tilting his head, Pippin examined the strange posture. But the jaw wasn't slack, he realized. It was poised for a strike. 

            But to strike what?

            Pippin saw no threat in the canyon, no Orc that had slipped past. And yet there Denethor was, coiled to attack and kill. And what was that scent? Nostrils quivering, Pippin sniffed the scent flag wafting through the air. It smelled… sickly. Sickly and dangerous. 

            The first drop slid off the end of the white fangs and landed harmlessly on the stone floor. This drew Pippin's attention back to those jaws of death… the drop was saliva, the spit that was bubbling out of Denethor's mouth into an ugly foam, a drool of madness that even an ignorant Hobbit wolf would recognize. 

            Screeching in terror, Pippin realized just what was happening. Denethor was about to kill his own pup!

            But the alpha heard Pippin's cry, and his whole body twisted around in one jerk to stare at the little Hobbit wolf backed against the wall. Denethor's eyes glinted with something terrible, something unnatural and murderous. Snapping his jaws together and biting at the air, he advanced on his prey…

            Pippin fled back down the canyon. 

            Out into the battle, ducking and jumping and launching over the Orcs that chomped at him, Pippin ran as though his life depended on it. But it wasn't just his life he ran for… it was Faramir. 

            A flash of black to his left alerted him, and he spun in that direction until at last he collided with Elrond. Howling with all the strength he could muster, Pippin gave the wolf cry for help. At once he had the black wolf's full attention, and pivoting around back towards the canyon, the Hobbit wolf begged for him to follow.

            Fearing for Faramir, who was wounded and unable to fight whatever misfortune had run in there, Elrond raced to the canyon, springing in the long corridors and racing down them until he spun around the corner and saw what Pippin had warned him against.

            Seeing Elrond there, Denethor barked hoarsely and clicked his teeth together. He still hovered over Faramir like a great vulture. Elrond advanced cautiously, his tail wagging in an effort to calm the Gondor alpha. But the madness was too engulfing, and Denethor hardly saw the friendly gesture. 

            But Elrond's advance worked, and the insane wolf backed up slowly, until he was up against the jagged block-off end of the canyon. As his paws scrabbled against it, he suddenly whirled around and scrambled up the pile of debris, too fast for even Elrond's lunge to catch. 

            Once at the top, however, Denethor froze. A great tremor ran through his body, and he gave a low whine of fear. The whine gradually slid up the scale and escalated into a wail of terror. Then he sprang away and tumbled down the opposite side of the block-off. 

            Leaping to the top of the rocky barricade, Elrond saw at once what had given Denethor such fear. A great wave of darkness was crawling towards them from the North, and a thunderclap was building overhead as though in some terrible omen. 

            Reinforcements for the Enemy.

            Time seemed to slow for Elrond, and for a moment the only thing he could see was a vision of the world that might have been, free from the Hunter and full of peace. This image of serenity was trampled by the evil racing towards him, and in one bound he was back down in the canyon and racing for the exit. Sending a bark over his shoulder, he commanded Pippin to stay with Faramir. 

            By the time Elrond was halfway into the battle again, the thunderhead had reached them, and explosions of noise erupted from above and the air crackled with lightning. A bolt reached the earth and struck it like a cannonball, the shrubbery shattering into flames and spreading around the battlefield. 

            Reaching Galadriel and Glorfindel, Elrond bade them look to the North. By now the advancing army was close enough to be seen from the ground, and both could plainly see the death that walked towards them. Fire crackling behind her and ringing her head with a flaming crown, Galadriel looked into Elrond's eyes and said,

            -We die together, my son.-

            And the black wolf echoed back,

            -Together, and with honor.-

            Two wolves turned and plunged into the fray with such awesome power and determination that the Orcs fell backwards before their very presence. 

            At last the advancing army reached the hills surround the battle, and the wolves turned their eyes upwards and saw the malice of many vicious foxes staring back. Glorfindel concluded grimly that they must be some new allies of the Hunter, and Haldir shuddered at their numbers. 

            A thundering howl, like the triumphant blazing of a silver trumpet, sang through the air that had suddenly fallen silent. 

            Rearing on his hind legs and clawing at the air, ruff lifted like a cape by the wind and lightning slicing the dark sky behind him, Aragorn the King had returned. 

            The Naugrim foxes plunged into the Orcs, falling like vengeful rain into the dark ranks and sweeping like piranha along the wretched black bodies. They ran as though they were a great river gifted with teeth and claws, seeping among the enemy and biting his feet right out from under him. 

            Elrond himself raced up the hill to be at Aragorn's side, but pausing halfway, awed by the change that had transpired. For Aragorn was no longer an uncertain young male, plagued by years at the bottom of the Gondor hierarchy. Now he stood like the King, and seemed to have grown to twice the size he was before.

            Lowering his mighty head, Elrond bowed respectfully to this awesome force. And Aragorn nodded back with all the regal majesty that was possible. 

            Shrieking, Haldir fled from the Naugrim, clambering up a hill and whirling to face them with teeth bared. But he saw that the foxes did not chase him, but instead fought the Orcs, and he was greatly confused. Across the way he spotted Legolas, standing on an opposite crest. Recognizing his kin and eager to greet him, Haldir sprang from his perch and sped across the battlefield to welcome Legolas back from his journey. 

            A temporarily forgotten foe raised its' head again, and a shot not muffled by a silencer shattered the air. 

            Haldir fell. 

            The Nazgul raised themselves up from their crouching positions, the silencers all discarded, secrecy tossed aside, complete annihilation the only remaining goal. They opened their fire into the ranks of wolves and foxes, the smaller bodies falling rapidly under this unknown foe. 

            The lightning and thunder now intensified, as death again swept the army of good and threatened to crush it. And as the sky darkened and the lighting became a strobe light, a wolfish silhouette was seen bounding gaily along the borders of the fight. 

            Denethor trotted along, barking nonsense calls and occasionally demanding that Boromir go hunt and bring back meat. His coat was now scraggly and tufted due his fall down the other side of the canyon, and he seemed oblivious to the carnage around him. Lighting suddenly split the earth before him, a blaze igniting the brush at his feet. Idly he pawed the flames, burning his feet and not noticing.

            In a blur of movement he whirled around, having sensed the presence of another behind him. It was Elrond, Gandalf seated on his back, walking forward with a gentle woof. Snarling, Denethor shook his head viciously, the foam breaking off from his face and into the flames, creating a hundred hissing deaths at once.

            Again Elrond called reassuringly, and again he received the same response. The black wolf took a final, fatal step…

            Screeching in madness, Denethor threw himself into the flaming brush. In only moments his body was consumed, and the smell of burnt flesh pervaded the air. Elrond looked away in resigned silence. 

            Gunfire continued to rip into the battle. Ironically, more Orcs were falling than before, and some of the beasts actually began a retreat back to the East. But the death toll for the foxes was racking up quickly, and any advance on the Nazgul was only making oneself a target. 

            But that could be what was necessary. 

            Swooping low before two of the Nazgul, Gandalf screeched a challenge to them. He flew in great, looping circles, drawing their fire until it was a fixation for them. The bullets came faster and faster, and Gandalf corkscrewed until at last he darted between them.

            They fell, each killed by the others' bullet.

            It was Eomer and Eowyn, flying across the earth, who sprang up as one and landed on the back of the third Nazgul, Eowyn's teeth sinking into the neck and breaking it easily. 

            But the last Nazgul was too fast for them all. In five swift strides he evaded the attack of the wolves, and in silence he vanished into the surrounding darkness. And a moment later, he materialized behind Aragorn, who was unaware… Eowyn yelped a warning even as the Nazgul aimed for the King's head… 

            The shot went wild, blazing into the sky and cutting through low cloud in its' fury. Alerted to the danger, Aragorn whirled and tackled the Nazgul, his powerful paws easily crushing the windpipe of the hunter. Dead. 

            Dismayed at the loss of their artillery, the Orcs fled for the East.

            Smoke was clearing from the battlefield, and the dead were scattered about in many numbers. At once the shrill mourning yips of the Naugrim arose, adding an eerie rhythm to the otherwise silent scene. 

            It was Galadriel who at last reached Haldir's side. Blood had spread all around him, staining his fair coat an ugly red and the surrounding earth a muddy darker color. She nuzzled his head once, and received no response. Celeborn appeared at her side and whimpered softly. He, too, nudged the beta in hopes of a reaction. This time, however, Haldir opened his pain-filled eyes and gave a soft whine. Alive.

            Gimli reached the side of his fallen father, Gloin. Pawing nervously at the old foxes' head, he felt the cold stiffness of death. The sorrowing yips escalated from his throat to join the rest. A surprise occurred then, and Legolas drifted through the smoke and sat nearby in respectful silence. 

            Aragorn, in the meanwhile, was inspecting the carcass of the Nazgul he was slain. The left knee was torn, mangled by the teeth of some other animal. The shot had gone wide because of a bite to the leg… Instantly the King scoured the ground, looking for his savior and at last finding him. 

            A little brown body lay still and motionless, thrown backwards by the rebound of the gunshot and the violent kick from the wounded Nazgul. It was Merry, who had followed the Great Pack in his refusal to stay behind, and who now lay cold and unmoving. Whimpering softly, Aragorn nuzzled the small head.             

            And the curly tail thumped weakly on the ground. 

            Merry was alive.

            Moments too late for the battle, Arwen came trotting over the hill, pausing at the top to sadly view the fallen. Aragorn loped up to her, and in silence the two met, each resting their head on the others' back in an embrace. 

            Another battle had been won, but at a dear cost. 

~ To Be Continued 


	16. A Game of Tag

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: To all my reviewers:

EvilStorm – Well, if LOTR and wolves are the loves of your life, this fic is for you. Don't worry, I have no plans of abandoning this any time soon. :D

tigerlily – Aw, a fan! Yay! To be honest, I don't know how I do… I guess I've watched one too many wolf documentaries. 

tenshiamanda – If you felt bad for everyone in the last chapter, fear not! Now we get niceness. 

Finnov – I'm glad you've discovered my story, and I hope to see more reviews from you! 

TK and Amarth – You guys already know what I would say to you. ;)

Everyone – Woo! Just saw a really cool documentary about wolves on TV, and I was so inspired I rushed up to write this! Anyway, I know I said we'd be getting Frodo and Sam in this chapter, but bear with me. Next time, I promise. Why am I still talking? You've all been waiting for…

Chapter Sixteen

~

            The silence that fell after the battle was awesome. Even the cries of the Naugrim faded away, leaving an eerie sense of quiet, as though the whole scene was suspended and holding its' breath. 

            Weary and battle worn, Elrond walked with a peculiar lack of his usual majesty. His tail hung down behind him, and his neck was relaxed that his muzzle pointed to the ground and he hardly seemed to see where he was going. Ears pressed back, he was in a state of exhaustion none of the wolves had seen before. Since the beginning of the Quest, he had appeared to them almost immortal, impossible to reach with either gun or claw. And now he was weary, stretched to his limits by the daunting tasks he had been performing. 

            The Naugrim parted silently, allowing this portrait of one weighed down by burdens to pass slowly and in agonizing silence. Trudging through their midst, Elrond hardly gave a sign of noticing them save for a twitch of his ears. Once past their ranks, he found an empty hilltop and collapsed on his side. He lie still for a moment, and then expanded his whole body as far as it would go in one long, massive stretch. And then at last, Elrond slept. 

            Haldir, in the meanwhile, had struggled resolutely to his feet, and was taking shaky steps towards the other bare hill, which promised another cozy bed if only he could reach it. But with a defeated sigh, he sat down halfway there. In his injured state he just couldn't walk that far. 

            A slender nose, quickly followed by a whole body, slid under him, and suddenly Haldir found himself in an awkward ride atop Eomer's back. In a burst of speed and before his cargo could fall off, the Rohan male reached the hilltop and lowered Haldir to a rest. 

            There are times when even a wolf is unsure what to do. For all of his life Haldir had been taught and trained that all Numenor wolves were fools, and he himself had taken those teachings to an extreme level. And yet here was a Numenor, the same kind he had sworn to hate, helping him and performing an act of kindness that was completely unexpected.

            Haldir wagged his tail. 

            On the battlefield, smoke still drifted along the earth like a great ghost, wafting among the wolves and breathing of death and gunfire. Shaking her head, Eowyn tried to snort away the scent. And in this vigorous movement, she turned and saw Aragorn and Arwen in a wolf embrace, standing closely side-by-side and facing opposite directions, and each with their head resting on the others' back. The Rohan female heaved a heartbroken sigh and trudged into the canyon. 

            Defeated and rejected. 

            It was Pippin alone who went racing across the battlefield, barking and howling for joy. Up and over the hill he ran, right between Aragorn and Arwen and splitting the two apart, tumbling at last to a halt at the top. Then began his dance of ecstasy, as he repeatedly nudged, licked, and otherwise cuddled his returned companion. 

            Merry woofed and wagged his tail a little, trying his best to reciprocate the exuberant welcome, but too injured to do so. Sensing this, Pippin became quiet and lay down next to his friend for a nap. This lasted a grand total of eight seconds, however, before the younger pup was up on his feet and prancing around again, too happy to sit still. Giving up on trying to rest, Merry barked gleefully. 

            Bounding towards each other, the brothers Elladan and Elrohir rejoiced in the fact that each was still alive. Glorfindel then joined them, and the three nuzzled and rubbed against each other. They were the last males of the Imladris pack, and they were glad to be living that day. 

            Brooding in silence, Legolas eyed the fox Gimli, who had now departed his fathers' body to sit by himself. Propelled by an urge he didn't fully grasp, the wolf trotted over to the Naugrim and sat at his side. There was an uncomfortable silence, and Legolas let his eyes rove to the horizon, scanning for everything and nothing. At last, with a sigh, Gimli leaned his little body against the wolf's larger foreleg. A connection had been made. 

            ~

            With one last despairing look over her shoulder at the lovers, Eowyn trotted sadly into the canyon. After a moment the cavernous walls swallowed her entirely, and she could no longer hear the other wolves outside. 

            Walking in a dejected stance, she dragged her paws along the stone floor and delighted in the dismal and heavy sound they made. She was upset, and a saddened wolf will hear and feel the other saddened elements around it. Heavy steps and a heavier heart were pulling her down, and the slouch was physically apparent. 

            That is, until she rounded the corner. 

            There he was. A handsome young male, strong and fit. He was… sleeping? Or maybe he was watching her… Deciding to test this second theory, she woofed softly. Apparently he'd been asleep, as he abruptly sat up and stared at her with wide brown eyes.  

            Faramir trembled at the lovely young female before him. Did she have a mate? Who was she? Why did she come back here? Any thoughts or questions about the battle flew from his mind as he experienced the peculiar phenomena of… 

            Love at first sight. 

            Sighing deeply, he wagged his tail to be friendly. She wagged back and came closer to him, sitting down with about five feet between them. Unsure, he whined politely to ask who she was, and she repeated the question to him. Soon the two were exchanging information in the language of the wolves, through whines, whimpers, and ear signals. 

            Eowyn herself was completely confused about how she should be thinking of this wolf. He was about her age, and he was very fine looking. And yet her heart was still bruised and recovering from Aragorn's unintentional blow, and against all her better instincts she made her polite excuses and exited the canyon. 

            Once outside, she glanced up at the clouds and allowed a small wolf smile to sneak across her face.

            Back in the canyon, Faramir wore the same grin. 

            ~

            Minutes slid by and time lost all meaning. Aragorn and Arwen had settled into a nest of fur on one hill, Merry and Pippin were in a heap of legs and tails behind them. Celeborn, Galadriel, Haldir, and curiously enough, Eomer were residing on another hilltop, while Legolas and Gimli still sat next to each other a little distance from the battlefield. Having been brought out of the canyon by Glorfindel, Faramir was dozing on a smaller crest with Eowyn watching him from a safe distance, and the three Imladris males were grouped together. On his hilltop, Elrond still slept. 

            Silence reigned and not a wolf twitched a muscle. Occasionally Celeborn tilted his head, and sometimes Glorfindel would shake out his ruff. But for the most part, they were still. A light breeze had arisen, and the smoke was blown away. The breeze also brought something else. Snow. 

            After three hours, the world was covered with a soft white blanket, and the corpses of battle had been buried safely. Snow began to collect on the wolves as well, and Merry and Pippin were all but lost under the powdery layer. It built up into a fine crust on Celeborn's head, and the alpha shook it off quietly. Of course, this dumped more snow on his slumbering mate, and Galadriel woofed in gentle reprimand. 

            Sleep began to claim them, and they dozed on and off while the flakes continued to fall, giving everything an odd, muffled effect. Almost all were asleep when it happened. 

            Bursting from his snow pile, obviously goaded on by Merry, Pippin dashed across the snow with all the enthusiasm of the puppy he was. In three bouncing strides he had reached Aragorn and Arwen all heaped in warmth. And without a second thought, he bowled right into them. 

            End over the end the regal pair went, their fuzzy sleep shattered by cold puppy paws and a sudden exposure to cooler air. Yipping, Pippin danced around his 'prey' as they attempted to collect their dignity. The Lorien alphas and Glorfindel watched, raising their eyebrows, while the younger wolves surveyed the tumble with amusement. 

            Rising to his feet, Aragorn did something quite unexpected. He took off at a gallop after Pippin, who spun in yelping terror and tried to flee. His short-legged pace was no match for the King, and he soon found himself hoisted aloft by his curly scruff. And moments later, he had been unceremoniously dumped headlong into a snowdrift. Royal punishment had been laid out. 

            Aragorn sped away as Pippin tore after him in a ridiculous chase. And then something even more interesting happened. Bounding up one hilltop, Aragorn bopped Eomer on the head with a paw. 

            Tag!

            Instantly Eomer, Eowyn, Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir sprang into 'battle', their youthful bodies pumping as they raced around and around the hilly area, pouncing and tumbling and nipping gently. Elrohir seemed to be winning when, wham!  The younger wolves were sent sprawling as Glorfindel, Celeborn, and Galadriel bowled into the game. 

            From their respective injured perches, Merry, Faramir, Legolas, and Haldir provided an enthusiastic cheering section as the game got faster and faster. Galadriel was it, no, Eomer, no, it was Arwen!

            Tag!

            Tag!

            Tag!

Eowyn attempted to tackle Celeborn, was completely surprised when he rolled onto his back, then found herself airborne, launched by his powerful hindlegs in his favorite defense move. Elladan and Elrohir ganged up on kid sister Arwen, but then Glorfindel, Galadriel, and Aragorn teamed up against them! 

            Suddenly and with a loud bark, Elrond was awake. The wolves all froze, staring up at him wide-eyed. All of them, even Galadriel and Celeborn, felt for some reason like guilty puppies getting caught doing something they shouldn't. 

            At last, Aragorn ascended the hill and stood looking down at Elrond, who was still lying down with his forelegs before him. After a long moment, the King of the Tundra raised a paw and brought it down with an audible 'whumph' on Elrond's head.

            Tag.

            In an explosion of movement, Elrond came rocketing down the hill and barreled into the game. With him added to the mix, the simple game of tag got kicked into a higher gear. Faster and faster they went, and then in a single motion they flew up and out of the hills and across the tundra. 

            Aragorn, Elrond, and Galadriel ran neck and neck for the lead, their longs legs working in a steady rhythm. The rhythm spread to the rest of the wolves, and soon all of their feet were pounding out the drumbeat, racing ever faster and ever more united. Legs became a blur, tails rippled like flags, and heads were high and proud.

            Through running, they were strengthened and cemented, their formation becoming tighter and tighter until they were a great jigsaw puzzle of speed and power. Gliding over a long and low crest, they spotted a herd of caribou. Without a break in stride the pack split in two, ripping into the herd and scattering the mighty beasts.

            Ecstasy to a wolf is the chase. For in the chase they are free to fly, free to stretch and use the wings that no eye can see. Their bodies seemed to lengthen, and with their ears pressed back and tails streaming out behind them, their whole body appeared to be one long and unbroken burst of muscle. 

            Singling off one animal, they tumbled after it, zigging and zagging around it easily. The caribou was wounded in one leg, and was no match for an adrenaline powered wolf pack. Glorfindel with his speed struck the killing blow, and the pack feasted. 

            Once finished, almost every member seized a piece of flesh to bring back to the injured. Eomer stayed with the kill to guard it, and the Naugrim would be told of its' whereabouts that they might feed themselves as well. 

            The trot back to the remainder of the pack was like sliding back down from the peak of a mountain. There had been a rush, and now there was quiet, and those that did not bear meat let their mouths hang open in panting grins. Their feet made hardly a sound on the fresh fallen snow. 

            At last drawing back to where they had started, they brought the meat to those that were injured. The food was greeted with enthusiastic barks and woofs. Eowyn was going to give her piece of meat to Merry, but Pippin was already there. She went to give to Haldir, but Galadriel had beaten her to it. Elladan had brought food to Legolas, so the only person left to be fed was…

            Faramir. 

            Walking timidly towards him, she deposited the meat before him with a shy wolf-smile. And before she could get away, he darted forward and planted a sound lick on her cheek. 

            Perching on his hilltop, Elrond watched this unfold with a smile growing in his heart. Hearing a rustle of wings, he glanced around just in time to see Gandalf come swooping in to settle on his back. The eagle looked just as happy as his wolf companion. Quirking an eyebrow at the spirit of the tundra, Elrond wondered,

            -And where have you been all this time, my friend?-

            -Oh, I've been around and watching.-

            Lifting into the air, Gandalf swept back around and gave Elrond a sound thump on the head with his wing. 

            Tag. 

            And Gandalf flew away low over the tundra. Springing into the air, Elrond raced after him in hot pursuit. 

~ To Be Continued


	17. Sam: Reluctant Savior and Army of One

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: My dear readers, I humbly apologize for making you all wait so long. I've been sick for four days, and before that my little brothers were sick and I was taking care of them. So… I've been busy. But never fear! At last, we're back with Sam! 

The second to last line of words in this chapter is lifted directly from 'The Two Towers', 'The Choices of Master Samwise'. I give Tolkien full credit. 

Chapter Seventeen

~

            Cold. 

            Bitterly, utterly, excruciatingly, numbingly cold. 

            The simple flurry of snow that teased the Great Pack and covered them with a gentle dust was escalating into monstrous proportions in the East. Hurricane force winds, plunging temperatures, and drifts and drifts of snow dumping from the sky created a massive blizzard, the likes of which had not been seen on the tundra in decades. 

            It thundered along, always Eastward, growing in strength and power like a snowball that had been tossed down a snowy hill, building and swelling to terrible immensity. 

            Always growing, always moving…

            ~

            Lonely. 

            Unbearably, hopelessly, agonizingly, painfully lonely. 

            And desperate.

            Trudging through the snow, muzzle pressed blindly to the ground in hopes of following the trail, loyal little Sam made his way along the wall of Mordor. He was freezing cold, and his tail drug uselessly behind him, but none of that mattered. 

            He had to find Frodo.

            Again, he shoved his sensitive nose into the snow, snuffling among the frigid particles in the feeble hope that the scent would be uncovered. No such luck. He'd lost the trail of the snowmobile long ago, smothered by the flakes that drifted from the sky with deceptive peace. And still he followed that hideous wall, knowing only that before the trail had vanished it had outlined the structure, and had given the appearance of continuing to do so. 

            Follow the wall. 

            As he stumbled on this weary path, he thought of what he had done wrong. Trust Gollum. That had been his ultimate mistake, and he had paid a bitter price for it indeed. Right from the beginning his instincts had warned against the scrawny wolf. If only he'd listened. If only Frodo had listened to him. 

            But no, none of this was Frodo's fault. It was all painfully obvious that Sam alone was the cause of this, at least in his own guilt-ridden mind. The world was upside-down, and the anchor of his alpha pup was missing. All thanks to that wretched Gollum. 

            Pausing, Sam leaned his exhausted body against the black expanse that kept him out of the Dark Land. He'd been walking for what seemed like days, his ears haunted by the terrified cries of Frodo upon his capture. And he, Sam, had been running in the opposite direction, leaving him alone for that one moment too long… 

            Curiously, the wind began to pick up, and the snow fell harder… and still Sam moved on. 

            ~

            Within an hour the blizzard had fallen on him. His little frame was buffeted mercilessly by the stinging winds, and razor-sharp fragments of ice dug into the tender skin of his face. The wind itself seemed to be howling like a lost soul, moaning in agony and bringing more pain to the Hobbit wolf that was at the mercy of the storm. 

            Sam walked at the same pace as before, but he was only going half as fast. The wind worked against him in many ways. One moment it would be driving him towards the wall, even throwing him against it in sudden force, other times it came at him from the front, pummeling him backwards. Then it was behind him, shoving, and then all around him. He was confused and disoriented and in utter despair. 

            Finally, when he could move forward no longer, and when his body could no longer take the stress, his legs collapsed from under him. Flinging back his head, he howled a tragic note that was snatched away by the fury of the blizzard. 

            For the moment, Sam was broken. 

            ~

            Wide, large ears swiveling and tail twitching, Gollum heard the note of sorrow.

            Lost also in the frozen chaos, he followed Sam to follow Master. Deep within, the tortured creature had a drive towards Frodo, desperate for the friendly attention when he himself had received so little in his life. Frodo had shattered his fragile state of anger, sending him in a whirlwind of instincts that had previously been unknown to him. Instincts like friendliness and tail wagging and nuzzling one you loved. 

            Madness. 

            At the moment, however, Gollum was face to face with death. 

            His thin coat was not meant for frozen temperatures. Years living caged and indoors had wreaked havoc with his survival skills, and he knew almost nothing of weathering such dangers. He staggered blindly along, his keen eyesight useless in the swirling vortex of ice. Uncontrollable trembling and shivers racked his body in almost seizure scale. The wind easily toyed with his light and thin frame, turning him sometimes in complete circles. 

He was terrified. 

            And yet that clear note of life from Sam pierced the fog that was settling over his mind. Someone else was alive out there. Someone else would be warm. 

            Tongue lolling out of his mouth in fear and exhaustion, Gollum nonetheless spurred himself in the direction of the voice he had heard. 

            ~

            Poking through what seemed to be the millionth in an infinite number of snow drifts, Gollum squinted his eyes against the biting wind. 

            There was another wolf.

            Trotting forward desperately, hardly able to move his aching and frozen limbs, he dragged himself close enough that he stood over his savior. This wolf seemed familiar somehow… Nostrils quivering, he bent his head and deeply inhaled the scent of the figure… 

            Sam!

            Suddenly full of fear, Gollum drew back in surprise. Sam. Sam, who had last been chasing him with murder in his eyes. Sam, who no doubt blamed him for the loss of Master. Whimpering, he shuffled in place. He truthfully hadn't meant for any harm to come to the dear alpha pup. If he'd known of the danger, he'd have thrown himself into the trap. But it was done, and Sam no doubt would kill him if he knew of his presence. 

            If the cold didn't kill him first. 

            Teeth chattering together like machine gun fire, Gollum faced an unbearable decision. He could run off and be saved from Sam's teeth and claws, but that would almost undoubtedly result in a frozen grave. Or, he could stay here… he gazed down at the sleeping Sam and groaned. 

            Sam did look warm. The thick, curly fur provided adequate shelter from the wind. And having been in the cold before, the Hobbit wolf knew the best defense. He slept curled up in a tight ball, so that his body heat stayed drawn in around him, and his tail carefully covered the bare end of his nose.

            A veritable fortress of heat. 

            A wave of cold swept through Gollum, his whole body twisting under the enormous shudder. There was no other option.

            Do or die. 

            Tentatively, he took a few steps closer to Sam. The Hobbit wolf slept. Satisfied, Gollum eased himself to the ground behind the other animal. Still no response. Now for the tricky part. Delicately, with agonizing slowness, he edged himself closer and closer until at last his freezing body was nestled against the warm one. 

            Instantly Gollum's near-dead system was flooded with life and blessed heat. Sam was sound asleep, oblivious to his newfound companion. Sighing and watching his breath create a fog, Gollum at last allowed his eyes to close as warm sleep fuzzed his brain. His head came down with a gentle thump on Sam's back. 

            And the snow covered them both. 

            Unknowingly, Sam had just saved the life of the wolf he had sworn to kill. 

            ~

            When dawn at last broke, Sam opened his eyes the teeniest bit to survey the surrounding area. He saw nothing but white. Lifting and shaking his head, he pierced the veil of snow that had blanketed him while he slept. 

            The Dark Land was now quite the opposite. Everything was pure and innocent white, a gentle look that smoothed out the jagged hills and covered the filthy earth. Turning around, however, Sam saw that not a bit of snow had stuck to the horrible wall. 

            It was in turning around that he felt something on his back that he hadn't noticed at first. 

            Springing out of his nest of snow, Sam whirled to face whatever it was that was down there. Silence. After a cautious moment, he stuck his head down in the icy burrow. 

            Gollum!

            Rage and adrenaline spiraled to his head and his jaw fell open. Gollum. How dare he show his face here! And right here where Sam himself had been sleeping! Then it dawned on Sam that Gollum must have slept there all night, if the snow had covered him as well. 

            The jaws that had hung slack in shock tensed for a killing blow. 

            In his sleep, Gollum winced, as though sensing the imminent strike. 

            It never came. 

            Sam gradually brought his jaws together, although every instinct in his body was screaming not to. He had thought of Frodo, and how the pup had treated this loathed animal. And how the pup would have wanted him to treat him. 

            With mercy. 

            And so Sam drew back his head out of the burrow, anything to get his mind off how vulnerable his sworn enemy was at that very moment. No, he had to act for Frodo, and this was what Frodo would have wanted. 

            Gollum was spared. 

            With renewed courage and energy, Sam took off at a breakneck speed through the snow. 

            It was time to find his Master. 

            ~

            When Gollum awoke hours later, he found himself alone. 

            And sighed. 

            ~

            The huge drifts of snow seemed to do nothing to Sam. He plunged through them, legs pumping and body working as a plow, shoveling a path along the edge of that cursed wall. Nothing could stop him now.

            It was as if sparing Gollum had given him a moment in which Frodo was at his side once more. He had felt the pup, felt his influence, felt his very presence, and that had rejuvenated him more than any sleep could have provided. 

            He was an army of one. 

            And if Sauron the Great Hunter himself had stepped in the way, he would have been trampled utterly. 

            ~

            At last Sam slowed to a stop. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the air. He stood for a long time just inhaling and exhaling with a slow, steady rhythm, tasting the wind for any trace of his Master. Something seemed to be there… a scent? A trace? 

            He sprang into motion once more. 

            Hurtling around a bend in the wall, he came face to face with the second most monstrous gates he had ever seen. He barely had enough time to drop and avoid being seen by any guard. 

            A second entrance! Surely it was here that Frodo had been taken! Sam's heart leapt in his chest as hope was born anew. 

            This ecstasy and joy faded away after about an hour of lying on his belly waiting for the titanic gates to open. Yet they stayed firmly shut, and Sam was beginning to wonder whether he would get in at all. 

            Just as he was about to leave to search for a different entrance, they opened. Quite suddenly, actually. One moment they were frozen and looming, the next they were thundering open with such force the earth shook. 

            Out came four rows of five hunters, out for a patrol. They wore the same black ski masks, but lacked the red goggles of the Nazgul. No, these were just the mass-produced warriors of Sauron, constantly searching his lands for any intruders. As they passed by Sam's hiding place, he crouched and tensed. 

            The gates were closing… 

            Now!

            Sam threw himself from his nook and raced with blind speed towards the diminishing crack. Faster… faster… 

            Boom. The bars of iron fell into place inside. Clang. The gate was shut.

            With Sam inside. 

~  To Be Continued 


	18. Journey in the Dark

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Sorry for the big delay. I won't even begin with the lame excuses for this one. :D And thanks to all the reviewers for the kindness, the tagging, and the get-well-soon's. Much obliged to all of you. About this chapter: It's kind of grim. If you're a bit on the squeamish side, be forewarned. No blood or anything though. And you thought you felt sorry for Gollum in the last chapter… 

            Chapter Eighteen 

~  

            Awe, horror, terror, fear, strength, and courage thundered through his body all at once. Sam stood frozen and unmoving, just inside the entrance he had just passed through, hardly daring to move lest some hostile force spot him.

            But there was no one there.  

            Having expected to see the long and endless expanse of Mordor falling out before him, Sam was shocked and confused to see only darkness. Standing there, ears twitching and nostrils quivering, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden lack of sunlight.

            Once he could look around and saw that there was, indeed, no enemy here, he trotted forward and looked to the left and right, seeing only infinite corridors in either direction. Infinite corridors… but that could only mean… 

            He was literally_ inside the wall. _

And then he panicked. He had no escape. Nowhere to go. Planning to end up in Mordor as soon as he breached the gate, he had decided he would run to nearest cover and move East from there. But now… now he was trapped inside. It was as though he had been swallowed by a snake. No light, no life, just an endless path in the gullet of this beast. 

            A small whimper escaped his throat, and he trembled. This was bad. That was all that he could register. This was bad. Where was Frodo? And how would he find him while he himself was lost in the bowels of the wall? There was only one way. 

            Start looking. 

            ~

            So his journey in the dark began. 

            Through scent and touch more than eyesight did he navigate, keeping one side of his body pressed against the disturbingly smooth walls at all times. Nose pressed to the cold floor, he smelled a whole history of evil and menace. Only days ago the Nazgul had passed where he now walked. And even more recently an Orc had gotten in and run blindly on a path of destruction before it was gunned down where Sam had just passed.

            A thousand ghosts leered at him from those onyx walls, ghosts of those killed and wronged, and ghosts of horror and murder that lurked here at the scenes of their crimes. Both could apply, for both stalked these halls on a regular basis. Sam had found himself in the Experimentation Corridor. 

            Glancing either way, he was daunted when the light grew to a dim glow, illuminating the gaping doorways he passed. And it was his glimpses into these doorways and rooms that showed him all the horrors that Mordor had to offer.

            A wolf carcass several days old lay in a bizarre cradle, its' legs bound to each corner and its' middle ripped open to reveal an empty cavity. Its' organs had been removed, and it now rotted uselessly, forgotten by the one who had experimented on it. 

            Stark and terrible, a wolf skeleton stood posed on a garish steel table, its' limbs mounted on artificial joints that it may be positioned in any way imaginable. At the moment it was propped up as though it were in mid-leap, and several odd spinning blades were imbedded in its' side. Sketches for the prototype weapon lay scattered on the floor. 

            Lying on an operating table, a wolf was stretched out on its' side with tubes and wires running in and out of it. Sam paused here, his heart breaking at all the death and destruction he was seeing. Living in the Shire, he had only seen calm and natural deaths, and never knew that creatures could be killed so cruelly. 

            But then the wolf's eyes flew open. 

            Alive!

            Horrified and feeling a screaming instinct to run, Sam scrambled down the corridor as though he had seen the dead coming to life. Alive! Then the wolf was being experimented on while still in a state of living hell. Numbed by this newfound discovery, Sam was startled from his thoughts by a whimper. 

            Immediately he connected the sound to his beloved alpha pup, and he sprang forward, heedless of any danger. Frodo! And yet as he hurtled around the corner and into the cold, lonely room, he stopped. 

            Eleven sad and rangy wolves stared back at him from their one large cage. 

            This was the Stoor pack. Once as happy and jolly as the Hobbit wolves, this pack had lived too close to the East. In the recent expansion of the Hunter they had been swallowed up, captured and taken into these dark halls for even darker purposes. Their numbers had dwindled tragically, and they now grew close to their eventual extinction. 

            And all of them stared at Sam with wide yellow eyes that were agonizingly familiar. 

            Backing away slowly and shaking his curly head, Sam stumbled when he suddenly collided with the opposite wall. He whirled on it like it had bitten him. With a sidestepping gait to maneuver towards the door, he could not tear his eyes from the Stoors that gazed at him so impassively. He could not read the notice hanging on the cage that read of execution and a death penalty. All he could see was the most terrifying set of eyes he'd ever known multiplied by eleven and watching him with mute agony. 

            He fled. 

            In his panic and haste he tripped and fell, skidding across the floor to come face to face with a final open doorway. But this one smelled familiar… poking his head inside, he saw an operating table and many discarded surgical instruments, some with stale and aged blood still clinging to them. But what was the smell? He paused, closing his eyes and letting his nose do the work. 

            Gollum. 

            Gollum had been in this room, been on the table, whether months or weeks or years ago he could not discern. But he had been there; his scent still clung to the room, and it was his blood on those tools.

            Overwhelmed now, Sam trotted down the corridor with a vacant and defeated air. Such horrors as he'd never known had now been thrown in his face in one mad and incomprehensible blur. It was too much to digest at once, and he was feeling an overload on his senses.

            Exhaustion overcame him, and he hardly had time to drag himself into a corner before sleep claimed him once more. 

            ~

            By the time he awoke twelve hours had passed. When consciousness returned he opened his eyes, but kept his body in a relaxed and dormant position. Peering through the slits of his eyelids, he gazed about for any enemies. None visible. A sniff of his nose, however, revealed that a hunter had passed by three hours ago and hadn't seen him. 

            Rising cautiously to his feet, the scent of that one wandering hunter abruptly reminded Sam that he was treading on thin ice. Trapped with the enemies' minions in an endless and easy to get lost in labyrinth, he was the one who was in real danger. 

            Now he stuck to the shadows, slinking along in a dreadful silence where every footfall sounded like an avalanche in his ears. Again and inexplicably, there were no foes around that he could see. He was passing through a similar hallway as before, except for one important change. 

            All the doors were closed. 

            Terrified that he might wander past the room that held Frodo within, his progress was agonizingly slow as he paused and sniffed at the crack under every door, desperate to catch scent of his alpha pup. He smelled guns… metal… more metal… no life. Despair began to seize him. 

            Even in this sorrow he felt that tenacious bit of hope in him, the little part of him that insisted Frodo would be behind the next door or waiting around the next corner… 

            ~

            As the doors slid open again to release another swarm of hunters, a scrawny form darted between them as they closed, making it inside the catacombs by a hair, his tail narrowly clipped off by the jaws of metal. 

            Once inside, Gollum trembled, but immediately picked up the scent of Sam. Sam, he knew, would lead him to master, and master would welcome and forgive him. So he scrambled down the corridors, blindly following that beloved scent trail. 

            He was heedless of where he was going, his eyes at level with the floor he scoured, trying to smell through the hunters' footprints to the path left by the Hobbit wolf. Occasionally he would pause and lift his head, giving the instinctive glance about for danger. But always his gaze was dragged back to the ground where he could follow the trail he sought.

            Until a very familiar and terrifying scent reached his nose. 

            Instantly, all the fur on his body stood on end, and he cringed even as he fled vainly for cover. No corners could be found; he was in a lonely hallway. Doom was upon him, and he dropped to the floor to make himself a smaller target. 

            After many minutes of lying there in terror, he cracked an eye open cautiously. There was no one there, but the scent still was heavy in the air. But if no one was bringing the scent, then he must be at the source. 

            A gut-wrenching whimper gurgled from his mouth as he glanced in a doorway. 

            He knew the wolf in the cradle. He recognized that now dead wolf with tubes running into its' body. He knew them all. Leaping to his feet, he loped down the hallway, his mind-blowing fear suddenly replaced by a strange surge of emotion. If he was here, then his family was right around the corner.

            Exploding into the room, his happy yip died in his throat as his world shattered around him.__

_            Dead._

The remaining Stoors had been gassed, poisoned in anticipation of the capture of bigger and better specimens. They lay sprawled over each in the cramped cage, their eyes glazed and unseeing while saliva pooled around their stiff open jaws. __

_            Dead._

Gollum reeled in the doorway, his mind spinning as he threw himself into the room and against the bars of the cage, shrieking in agony to wake his kin. Gnashing his teeth on the metal, his groans and whines did nothing to rouse them. He recognized them… his brother, his father, his grandmother… his mate… __

_            Dead._

Madness bubbled in his chest, ripping out of him in the closest thing a wolf can get to sobs. Curling against the cold bars, he moaned again in a final call to them. But they did not hear. In a fit of rage and confusion he smashed his head against the cage, remaining with his forehead pressed to the steel as his panting breath created a fine mist on the scene. __

_            Dead._

All of them gone… gone before he could back to them… Another groan, another sigh… but they were gone. No warm yellow eyes opened to greet him. No tail thumped on the floor in welcome. And they never would again. __

_            Dead._

His own tail tucked under his legs so far it was brushing his belly; so great was his agony and sorrow. Heart was leaden with a strange sense of numbness. Paws felt like ice… or stone… something heavy and immovable. Whole body felt like he'd fallen off a cliff… or been hit by a snowmobile. Something that left him drained and beaten and utterly exhausted. 

            The scent of Sam tickled his nostrils and swayed like a temptress before him, beckoning him away from the horrors of this ghastly metal tomb. Thoughts of Sam connected him with thoughts of master, his spirits lifted slightly at the thought of seeing the alpha pup once more.

            Weary and confused, blind to anything but the idea of finding Frodo again, he left the room of his dead pack.

            He did not look back. 

~ To Be Continued 


	19. Deliverance

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Yes, I've been so terrible making you all wait SO long! I've been so busy lately! I had to go to a boring Christmas party, and then we went out of town, which was really fun, but anyway!

Manda – Huzzah, I've dragged you into the circle of my writing. Thanks so much for investigating my work!

EvilStorm, tigerlily, and Amarth – I'd forward all of your hugs to Gollum wolf, but I think he'd bite me. He appreciates the concern, though. :D

TK – Reviews can never be too long. All of you, take notes. A review can_ never _be too long. I enjoyed reading every word of that, and thank you for all of the compliments. 

 If you think Gollum is acting a bit out of character in this chapter, wait till you get to the end of this installment… the whole story is about to be turned upside-down!

Chapter Nineteen

~ 

            Weary and hope fading, Sam poked his head against what seemed to be the thousandth door, inhaling deeply in the feeble thought that he might smell Frodo concealed within. And for the thousandth time, he smelled nothing but guns and metal and steel. No living animals, not in these catacombs. 

            He longed to see the sweet light of day again, to feel the gentle caress of a spring breeze tickling his ears. He thought of the Shire… of those endless green hills, rolling and stretching into an infinity of paradise. He watched his homeland unfold before him, settling over the vision of horror he was in and replacing it with emerald purity. 

            Merry and Pippin romped up and down the hills, tussling and barking and having a wonderful time. In a particularly sunny patch of flowers, Bilbo and Gaffer sat, absorbing the warmth and watching the pups. 

            And then, Rosie walked towards him from this vision of happiness. He could see her before him, as clearly as if she actually stood with him in the corridor, her pretty brown eyes smiling at him silently. He stepped towards her, and she bounded away. Encouraged, he sprang after, cavorting in the beauty of springtime, Rosie taunting him with coquettish wags of her tail. 

            Suddenly, Merry went stiff as though he heard something. Almost as soon as he barked the alarm, a snowmobile came shooting over the hill and collided with him, vaporizing his body like the vision he was. It hit Pippin, and he vanished. Bilbo and Gaffer… and then Rosie. All that remained was a snowmobile ripping through the Shire, tearing up the landscape and replacing it with grey and craggy despair. 

            As the snowmobile whipped past him, he could hear Frodo yelping… crying… He wanted to chase after the monster and rescue the alpha pup, but his legs felt like stone. He jarred them into action, charging at a leaden pace after the hunter and his prey… 

            Onward, running, the scenery flying by… And then Gollum was running at his side, nipping at his heels trying to stop him… Sam tried to bite at the intruder, but as his teeth snapped around what should have been Gollum's neck… 

            It all vanished. 

            Skidding to a halt, Sam found himself in a bright and inhabited hallway, his mirage fading instantly and laying bare his imminent doom. Instinct and terror drove him under a low shelf, and he crouched hidden as a hunter swept past. 

            This place was full of the enemy! Hunters were everywhere, pacing, checking their guns, and doing everything horrible that he had imagined they would. There were still doors, but these were different, with glass panels taking up the whole top half that any passerby might look in. 

              An exhausted but still living thrill of hope fluttered in his heart, and he desired nothing more than to run out in the hallway and start looking for Frodo. But the busy presence of the enemy kept at bay, and he crouched impatiently in his hiding place. 

            ~

            It wasn't until many hours later that night fell. Sam did not know this, of course, but he could see that the halls were at last deserted. At last. 

            Springing into the open, he eagerly sniffed under the first door. Nothing. Second door. Nothing. Still bursting with faith that Frodo would be revealed; he scurried down the corridor with his tail wagging. 

            An hour later, his tail was still wagging. For some inexplicable reason, he didn't care how long it took anymore. He didn't care if it took an eternity to find Frodo. He was on the right track, oh, he knew it, he felt it… as long as he_ found _him. It didn't matter when. It didn't matter how. 

            In this drunken euphoria of hope and hunger-induced lightheadedness, he sniffed under a door_ and smelled a Hobbit wolf!_

The giddiness shattered away as though it had been dashed with ice cold water. Inhaling the scent again, he trembled from head to tail and confirmed it. __

_            Frodo!_

Filled with joy, he pawed at the door. He would bark, naturally, but that would bring trouble. So instead he whined excitedly, hardly able to contain the happiness bubbling inside of him. Laughing in the way of the wolves, he continued shoving the door. 

            Nothing. 

            The smile faded away and his eyes became serious again. Something was wrong. Why wasn't it opening? Was something… stuck? What could he do? Eyes scanning the door rapidly, he saw a metal panel on the bottom, a glass panel on top… a handle…

            Sam sat back on his haunches, distraught. Now what? He studied the door more carefully, in hopes of discovering some secret entrance… nothing. And still the scent of his beloved alpha pup tickled his nose, tempting him and beckoning him… again, he thumped his head against the steel panel. 

            A snore interrupted his thoughts. 

            Springing in the air and skittering away, he paused when he heard that no one was chasing him. Turning his head around slowly, nostrils quivering, he looked back. There was a guard! Slumped over in a chair and sleeping soundly, but nonetheless a guard with a gun and no doubt the power to alert the whole corridor if something was discovered amiss. Sam had been trotting around right under the nose of doom, and he had been utterly blind to it. 

            So, there was a guard. Must be quiet. Cautiously edging back towards the precious door, he again sniffed at the base of it. Frodo was in there, all right… a panicked whine escaped him, and the guard rumbled quietly in his dreams. 

            And then Gollum appeared. 

            Trudging around a corner some thirty feet down the corridor, he looked broken and weary, his paws dragging on the floor with every step and tail hanging low behind him. His eyes were glassy, and his posture spoke of sorrow and heartbreak. 

            Sam froze. The wretch could mean the end of everything… he could wake the guard easily, send the whole place in an uproar… Trembling, Sam wished that Gandalf were with him.

            Gollum's ears perked up and he stopped walking, his nose twitching as he, too, detected the smell of master. Instantly, his tail curved up over his back, wagging, as he raised brightening eyes to stare at Sam hopefully. Sam glared back in mute silence, and the thin grey tail gradually dropped back to the floor. 

            Ears still lifted, Gollum surveyed the situation. Guard. Closed door. Master behind closed door. Must open door. Certainly. Easy. Gollum himself knew perfectly well how to open a door; he'd done it himself once or twice, when some desperate cry for escape sent him spiraling down these bleak halls. 

            But Sam did not. 

            Panting, the scrawny wolf glanced around, his bloodshot eyes finally settling on a blank door that could only be a closet. Gliding quietly over to it, he smoothly jumped up at the paneling and grabbed the door handle with his teeth, his force pulling it down and pushing the door open. Landing back on the floor, he spun about to see if Sam understood. 

            Blinking, the Hobbit wolf could only stare. Was Gollum… helping him…? Apparently so, as an urgent whimper was sent across the hall. Sam nodded his head uncertainly, making the grey wolf bounce enthusiastically. Then, Gollum pranced out into the middle of the hall and crouched, taking deep breaths and readying himself for something. 

            He was going to bark!

            Sam tensed, his calm nodding turning into a rapid shaking of his head as he frantically tried to stop him. The guard would surely wake! Was he insane? Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam tried to make himself a smaller target… 

            As Gollum leapt into the air and started barking his brains out. 

            At once, the guard was awake, his whole massive body jolting with the force of his return to consciousness. Eyes still hazy with sleep, he nonetheless spotted a little grey blur bouncing up and down the hall, barking and yapping like a mad thing. Grabbing his gun, the guard lurched into motion. 

            That's exactly what had been expected. Spinning on his heels, Gollum raced into the darkness, his noise echoing back at the guard and spurring him off in pursuit. 

            Not wasting a moment, Sam turned and launched himself at the door, teeth snapping wildly on the air until they grasped the handle, which gave under his pressure. The door flew open and he tumbled inside in a flurry of legs and paws. 

            Eyes darting around the room, he didn't even have to look twice as his heart drove him in the direction of the steel operating table. A crate next to it provided a step, and he went from that to the stainless surface.

_            Frodo. _

Throwing himself down next to the limp black form, Sam released all his tension and fear in one wolf sob, muffled as he buried his face in the sweet, soft fur. Inhaling deeply, he just smelled him, relishing in the innocent puppy scent that he had feared lost forever. Then he paused. Frodo wasn't reacting, wasn't moving at all. 

            Panic swept Sam's mind, and he pressed his head against the little chest in desperate hopes of finding a sign of life. He listened, straining his ears, until a faint heartbeat rewarded him. Simultaneously, a shaky breath expanded the ribcage, pressing up against Sam's face with relieving breath. 

            And then those large blue eyes opened. 

            As dazzling as ever in their brilliant sapphire color, they flitted in confusion around the room, a reedy whine accompanying the bewilderment. Suddenly, the gaze settled on Sam. With a sigh, Frodo snuggled his body up against his companion, eyes drooping shut. 

            But now was no time for a cozy reunion. Outside, Sam could hear that Gollum's diversion was causing a commotion. Feet pounded by the doorway, and an alarm was going off somewhere. Time to get out. 

            Seizing Frodo by the scruff and hardly noticing the weight, Sam leapt directly to the floor and exploded out the doorway, making a blind run for a shelf across the way. Skidding under the lowest level, he paused there, panting, until a squadron raced past. 

            A series of such movements followed. Diving from cover to cover, barely aware of the burden that dragged him down, he carefully followed the squadrons along. They were going to lead him to an exit; he could sense it. 

            Exactly. 

            A yawning cavern of light and a gust of fresh air –_ fresh _air – blasted him in the face as he came around the corner. There was the exit. Now was the time to act. Not even looking to see if a squadron was coming, he pitched himself out in the open, hurtling through the gate and passing onwards, plowing through the snow, heedless of its' depth since the blizzard. 

            Onward! Onward! Plunging through the drifts, legs working like pistons, Sam sped as far away from Mordor, it's gate, and all such wretched things, fast as he could, neck craned up so that Frodo didn't drag. Faster and faster they went, at a pace reminiscent of their first run from the Orcs so long ago. 

            ~

            At last, at long last they stopped, and Sam nestled his beloved burden into the snow and looked around. 

            His heart stopped. __

_            He had run them into Mordor!_

Disoriented in the endless tunnels, Sam had lost his sense of direction entirely. What he had thought would carry them back to safety, back to the Shire, had only succeeded in dumping them right in the middle of evil. 

            Were they doomed to a horrible fate after all?

            The sedatives that had been in Frodo's system were wearing off, and he got shakily to his feet and staggered around for a bit. Sam trotted over and inspected him for injuries of any kind, snuffling through the thick fur for any scars or wounds. Nothing that he could see… 

            His search ended abruptly at the neck. There was something there… even as he sniffed at it, Frodo crumpled into a little heap of exhaustion and slept, content knowing that Sam was there. His little head bowed forward, revealing the back of his neck plainly. Sam sniffed at it suspiciously. 

            It appeared to be a collar of some sort, covered in a fine gold-like sheen of metal, a little yellow light blinking contentedly in the midst of it all. The band itself seemed to be covered with fiery writing, the text a blazing red and reading something in a language that meant nothing to Sam. 

            Sam saw only one thing there around his master's neck. 

            A Ring. 

~ To Be Continued


	20. Phantoms

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Merry Christmas, everyone! My gift to you: a new chapter! Yay! With a really AWFUL cliffhanger! Double-yay! 

The actual purpose and design of the Ring is going to remain fuzzy for a while, so just bear with it. I realize Gollum was OOC last chapter, but now that there's a Ring… check it out. On to… 

Chapter Twenty 

~

            Head thrusting forward rhythmically with every stride, Gollum pounded down the sterilized corridors, his long tongue slopping out of his mouth in efforts to cool himself down. He'd been running at his greatest speed for about ten minutes; the duration was taking its' toll. 

            Every step sent jagged peaks of agony into his joints, his lungs burning with every breath he labored to suck in. Had to keep oxygen coming… had to keep legs moving… no matter what the pain, had to keep the hunters away from master. 

            Hurtling around another corner, he paused for a split-second to determine his position, and then resumed the frantic pace. Were they gaining on him? Of course, he had the advantage, being a wolf and naturally faster than men. But a tired wolf is no contest in the running department, and he could feel the energy being sapped from his body with each step. 

            A strained whining found its' way into his breathing, every exhalation a thin cry of terror, as he realized the guards were actually catching up to him. He'd be doomed… back on that table, back under the scalpel… 

            No!

            The panic made him swifter, and his wrenching muscles continued to operate on automatic pilot, his mind glazed and only thinking of finding that way out… where was it? 

            There.

            The gate was ahead! Far at the end of the corridor, he could see a patch of brilliant white light, beckoning him on and promising release. But then… the light began to shrink. __

_            The gate was closing._

Shaking his head in manic denial of his imminent capture, he spurred his overworked limbs into overtime, thundering down the corridor with heavy, pounding steps, quickly blurring into a streak of dirty grey. 

            Jumping and stretching, he launched himself through the impossible crack, and heard the gates slam behind him. He was outside, breathing the fresh air, the slow-working doors firmly closed at his back. 

            But a strange buzzing sound was snarling in the back of his head, and he was suddenly so dizzy he fell to the ground. The buzz was slowly turning into a howling siren of pain… glancing over his bony shoulder, Gollum saw.__

_            His tail was still caught in the jaws of the gate!_

Screams of agony and horror shattered the air of the tundra. 

            ~

            A distance away, Sam nonetheless heard the gut-wrenching screeches, and he trembled. At his feet, Frodo shifted restlessly, ensnared by some vaguely haunting nightmare. His little black paws twitched, and then batted helplessly at the air. Eyes clenched shut in fear. Tail quivering. 

            Sighing deeply, Sam curled up behind him, trying to calm him with his body. The pup shivered, and then relaxed. But not for long; arching his neck backwards, Frodo unconsciously was trying to bite at the Ring. He of course could not reach it… his paws began rhythmically pushing at the thing, as though he was trying to get it over his head. 

            The pushing led to shoving led to panic, and soon Frodo was clawing at his own neck and whining, anything to get that Ring off. Pained by this tragic display, Sam nudged the pup into wakefulness, and Frodo's eyes flew open with a yelp. 

            The shrieks in the distance had stopped abruptly, and Frodo sniffed the air cautiously. Spotting Sam next to him, his tail thumped on the ground and he 'woofed' softly. His blue eyes sparkled with joy, and he rolled onto his back, waving his paws in the air ridiculously. 

            Rolling his eyes, Sam marveled at the good humor of his alpha. He felt his own inner pup stirring, awoken by stress and in dire need of exercise. Playing along, he swooped down and nuzzled Frodo's belly vigorously. 

            The pup writhed and yipped under the tickling, his paws latching onto Sam's face and trying futilely to flip the bigger wolf over. But alas, Sam was sturdier than that, and continued in his 'merciless' assault. 

            The game was abruptly cut short when Frodo yelped and twisted away, using his hind leg to reach around and scratch at the Ring that was chafing his little neck. Whining softly, he turned his mournful gaze on Sam in a mute plea for the removal of the object. 

            Bowing his head in the remorse of knowing he could never succeed, Sam nonetheless took resolutely to the Ring, gnawing his teeth on it, back and forth around the rim, hoping to find a weakness. Chewing at the metal was painful, but bearable, as Frodo relaxed, naively believing that he would be free at any moment. 

            That moment never came; Sam's gums only began to bleed again, the unknown metal remained solid and cold. Reluctant to give up and yet unable to continue, Sam flopped down wearily next to his alpha, another deep sigh rumbling in his chest. 

             A soft sigh echoed the beta's; Frodo stretched out in the snow and glanced idly at the sky. His heart trembled at the ice wrapped around his throat, and yet it continued to beat calmly due to the wolf next to him. 

            Sam was his anchor. 

            ~

            The two slept for many hours, their weary bodies still recuperating from days in corridors and under chemicals. By the time they awoke, it was late, late at night, and the moon whispered in the sky, surrounded by the ragged clouds. 

            Sam howled a shivering note to the stars, his voice cracking on sorrow and despair. A weak song from Frodo joined him, and the two broken voices slid up and down the musical scale in a song reminiscent of those songs with the Pack of the Quest. 

            Visions of their companions swam before their eyes, and soon they could see the familiar lithe shapes racing through the mist around them. Merry and Pippin trotted by, tumbling along an inch above the ground, their phantom forms shrouded in fog. 

            The tall slender form of Legolas rose in the darkness, and Aragorn materialized at his side. They walked alongside the Hobbit wolf ghosts, unaware of Frodo and Sam who watched with pining hearts. 

            Suddenly, a much more clarified shape appeared. Boromir. His eyes were clear and brown as they had been, unlike the vacant white of the others. He looked almost real, his feet planted firmly on the ground and his gaze looking directly at the two Hobbit wolves. 

            A breeze hurried by, snatching away the vision of the Gondor male. The ghostly form of Boromir twisted and wavered, before blowing up and into the sky. There, he became a constellation of stars, the eternally captured imaged of a mighty wolf running across an endless tundra. 

             The others vanished into the chill night, and Sam and Frodo released the breaths they'd been holding. The pup bowed his head. He had understood the significance of Boromir's clarity; the Gondor male must be dead. Dead… Slain by that same rampaging pack of Orcs? Fallen in some mighty battle? 

            The night wind offered no answer but a sigh, as though it mourned as well for the lost warrior wolf. 

            ~

            At dawn, Sam lumbered to his feet, shaking the sleep from this eyes and the snow from his coat. Frodo continued to lounge on the ground, so the beta trotted to the nearest hilltop and glanced around at the forbidding horizon, trembling at the vicious skyline of factories and foundries.

            Smoke plumed on the air and rolled towards them, causing Sam to squint his eyes shut against the sting. It was a great blot upon the land… 

            Behind him, Frodo was struggling to his feet, and Sam obediently loped back to his side. The alpha pup was having some trouble; the Ring seemed to be irritating him even more this morning, and he whined and scratched at it pitifully. 

            Sam would have been content to stay in that one place and wait it out, or maybe even head back to the West and to the Shire. He sat down and looked meaningfully back towards the wall. But then, unexpectedly, Frodo began marching resolutely towards the heart of Mordor. 

            Jumping to his feet, Sam chased after him, whimpering a barrage of questions and listing a thousand reasons to turn back. He was not heeded. 

            It cannot be explained why Frodo kept going. He was not dictated by wolf nature or instinct; a deeper knowledge drove him, some hidden wisdom that even he himself did not realize. All he knew was that he had to get there, somehow. 

            ~

            Hardly an hour into their traveling, they stopped suddenly and shivered. A quavering wail ripped through the air behind them, causing all their fur to go on end. Sam spun around to face the intruder, while Frodo turned with weary resignation to whatever fate sped towards them.

            Gollum. 

            Straggling over the hill, the emaciated wolf was all but dragging himself along, his eyes stark and glistening with agony and hunger. A bloodied and broken half of a tail hung behind him, shining with frozen blood and bare bone. In his desperate struggles to free himself, he had nearly ripped the whole thing off. But as the doors had begun to crawl open to release more troops, he had staggered away with half of his tail still clinging to his body.

            The agony was forgotten as soon as his gaze settled on Frodo. Stumbling forward, the grey wolf collapsed at the pup's feet, breathing deeply and hardly moving a muscle. 

            Sickened and confused, Frodo leaned backwards and whimpered uncertainly. Gollum lifted his head curiously, and then everything froze. In leaning back, Frodo had exposed his throat, and the Ring was perfectly catching the sunlight. It glowed with a beacon of its' own… 

            Gollum recognized it. In years of captivity, he had seen these Rings. He had seen them attached to wolves, and had seen those wolves set free. Wolves had been set free without Rings, and they were always brought back and killed. But wolves with Rings… they were free for good. They stayed loose. Nothing ever bothered them again. 

            It was a Ring of power. A Ring that promised ultimate freedom. 

            Mouth hanging open, Gollum saw only that as he mechanically clamped his teeth around Frodo's neck and began tearing at the Ring. His rough jaws scraped against the pup's neck, and he squeaked uncomfortably. 

            At once Sam was shoving the grey wolf aside. Helpful or not, he certainly wasn't helping now. 

            Gollum hardly noticed; his gaze was locked on that Ring… the images of freed wolves danced before his eyes. He himself had been set loose… but how long would it last? Without a Ring, they would come looking for him, and then bring him back to his death. 

            He needed that Ring. 

            Forgetting the agonies of his lost tail, forgetting the threatening glare of Sam, forgetting even the pleading looks of Frodo, Gollum lunged forward, jaws snapping… 

~ To Be Continued 


	21. Gollum versus Gollum

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Has everyone had a fun New Year? I saw TTT for the third time, wheeeeeeee… Does everyone else think Gollum kicked major arse? Oh yeah, and Grima. But Gollum especially, you know. Anyway, yeah, this fight is an echo of the movies' first Frodo/Sam/Gollum encounter, if you can spot that. And for all of you who wanted more Gollum being Gollum, well… this chapter got its' name for a reason… 

            Chapter Twenty-One 

~

            The razor teeth of Gollum clamped down on flesh, not the tender puppy flesh of Frodo, but the beefy shoulder of Sam. The beta had bowled his little alpha out of the way, and took the full impact of the bite, yelping as the vicious needles pierced his fur and dug into his tender skin. As Gollum realized his error, Sam brought around his head to chomp down on the scrawny neck. 

            Too late! The grey wolf sprang away, pivoting on his hind legs, using his momentum to jump completely over Sam's head. In truth, Gollum knew not from whence this newfound agility came. It was his adrenaline, triggered by the loss of his tail, fueled by the need for the Ring. Landing on the other side of his opponent, he lunged again at Frodo in hopes of claiming his prize. 

            End over end the pup tumbled, landing on his side and pumping with his legs to scoot further from the maniac at his heels. Gollum lunged; his throat was caught by Frodo's paws. Teeth clicked shut a mere inch from the pup's neck, nose brushing the Ring and increasing the madness. Terrified, Frodo shrieked a whine of despair, unable to keep Gollum at bay any longer…

            Suddenly Gollum was falling backwards, dragged by the savage teeth of Sam clamped on his dirty scruff. Crashing to the ground, the skinny wolf used his force to propel the beta onto his back, flipping over, jaws flashing… 

            His grip closed on Sam's throat. 

            Yes! Victory! Increasing the pressure, Gollum shuddered with satisfaction as Sam ceased to draw breath, his paws battling feebly at his attacker, his defenses growing sluggish with lack of oxygen. __

_            Agony!_

With a scream, Gollum released his prey as a set of puppy teeth ripped into the ruined stump of his tail. Whirling on his attacker he saw that it was Frodo, blue eyes blazing with anger and the Ring flashing with a light of its' own. Frodo… The insanity faded from Gollum's eyes and he trembled. 

            Here was Frodo… beloved master, kind master, the one who had always been kind to him. Now he turned on his servant, his Gollum, lashing out at the scrawny wolf's most vulnerable place. But why? Why would master turn on him? 

            Master had betrayed him. 

            The torture of his tail was nothing compared to the torture that smashed upon his confused mind. Master! Why? Why, why, why? 

            Ripping away from Frodo's grasp, Gollum fell to the ground in anguish, brain reeling and senses on overload. It was all wrong… the world was inside out; upside-down… even the horizon seemed to be wheeling and dancing before his fatigued eyes. 

            Sam advanced on him, snarling and this time fully prepared to end the miserable creatures' life right then and there. But before he could get any closer to the wretch, Frodo was in the way. And this time, it was not an act of pity. 

            Frodo wanted to do it himself. 

            A peculiar dementia had gripped him, throttling his mind and clouding his thoughts. He saw how Gollum desired the Ring; saw how Gollum now groveled before the one who bore It. It was powerful… there was something amazing and awesome in this Ring, Gollum's reactions made that much clear. And suddenly, Frodo was filled with a lust. 

            A lust to keep the Ring for himself. 

            And so Frodo bore down on Gollum, Gollum who had trusted and adored him, Gollum who had sacrificed himself to ensure that the alpha made it to safety, Gollum who had led them safely thus far. None of this registered in the pup's mind; the hysteria of the Ring drove him onward, fangs glaring viciously. 

            Whimpering helplessly, Gollum pressed his lanky body to the earth, the cold seeping into his bones, while at the same time cold fear sank into his heart. Master… it couldn't be… The Ring! Must have the Ring! His teeth chattered together with the stress. 

            Before the killing blow could be dealt, Gollum gave a despairing wail, kicking his paralyzed legs into motion, rolling to his paws and racing away from the Hobbit wolves, his panic and hurt sending him tumbling haphazardly away through the snow, slipping and falling from his haste. 

            He was gone. 

            Instantly Frodo dropped to the ground, sides heaving and body trembling. What had happened? What had driven him so mercilessly at the one who above all things_ deserved _mercy? Why?

            The confusion that assaulted him struck Sam as well, and the beta stood uncertain. Frodo had always been kind and generous to a fault, always. And now this: a sudden attack of brutality with lethal intent. 

            Had the world gone mad? 

            And still the Ring dragged heavily at Frodo's delicate neck. 

            ~

            Night drew on apace, the clouds ensnaring the moon and hiding her gentle light, leaving the Hobbit wolves in utter and hopeless gloom. Wind came hard and fast, striking their bare noses and stinging their exposed eyes. Unable to travel further, they dropped wearily to the ground and slept fast. 

            A short distance from their slumbering bodies, a vicious scuffle took place. A scuffle of mind against mind, a struggle of instincts and lunacy. 

            Gollum faced his demons. 

            The lonely hilltop was his stage; the lighting provided by the lack of moonlight, and the whispering wind and empty darkness his eager and only audience. He had followed master thus far, and now the time for debate had come. His thoughts ran in a jumbled pattern of rambling. 

            Master safe. 

Master betrays. 

But safe. 

Ring! Master has Ring. Need Ring. Want Ring. Master keeps Ring. Master betrays. 

Why? Why master angry? 

Master betrays, bites, hurts. Tail hurts. Wind cold. 

Why, master? 

Sam, nasty Sam, almost had him. Should have killed faster, sliced harder. But master betrays, master stops. 

Why? 

The Ring… must have it. Must. 

But master keeps it! 

Then kill master. 

Can't! 

Must. 

Can't! 

Must! Master or Ring? Which one? Ring. 

But master was kind… 

Master betrays! Don't like master! Kill master! 

Leave master alone… 

Kill him! So helpless, so easy. 

But can't! Master was kind, protecting! 

Kill him, take Ring. Ring only master, Ring only thing needed. Need Ring. 

But master… 

Master must die!

            As the argument wore on, Gollum gradually became two wolves. Back and forth he sparred, spinning and raising his hackles, neck craned in authority and eyes slits of anger. Down he crouched, trembling and uncertain, wide eyes full of fear. Up, down, spinning in circles, chasing not his ruined tail but himself. 

            A silhouette of hideousness he became, the changes becoming faster and faster as the Ring won over Master in his mind. His pacing and restless feet tore up the earth, foam flying from his gaping jaws each time he spun uselessly in circles, hoping to spot his adversary. 

            The adversary was in his mind, and only there could it be defeated. 

            No victory for kindness. The Ring conquered all. 

            Master must die!

~ To Be Continued… 


	22. The Wind Changes

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: Yes, I know it's been a long time since I updated. I feel incredibly awful that it's taken me so long to get a new chapter up! I won't burden you with tiresome excuses, but I will thank you for you patience. 

Chapter Twenty-Two 

~

            A sharp and red dawn broke over the muted silence of the snow. Wind whispered gently along, silently picking its' way among the sprawled wolf bodies that lounged about in various states of sleep and relaxation. 

            All save one. 

            The electricity of the game of tag had not yet left Aragorn in peace. A deep path was carved in the snow, a perfect circle fashioned by long and tireless pacing and restlessness. And it was not the tag that drove him to be full of such unquenchable energy. No, it was something else… something he couldn't decipher… 

            Still pacing, the King strained his eyes to the East. His movement slowed and he stood like a statue, his steady gaze leveled in the direction of Mordor and his ears flattened back against his head.

            Phantom smoke twisted on the horizon. As though he was suddenly right in front of the gate, Aragorn saw Mordor unfolding before him and a sudden and vicious display of horror. Darkness, fire, smoke, ash, guns… death. 

            And then he was back in the hills of the Gondor pack, the wind giving him a curious nudge and a nasty prod. The snow had stopped long ago. Snow would not fall again for a long time. This was the rhythm in his heart; deep wolf instinct told him that it could be weeks before the sky opened up with anything. Wind would persist and the sun would rise, wiping away the innocent white blanket that covered up the destruction of battle.

            But snow would not come. 

            Heaving a sigh of disappointment, he shook his ruff out with very little majesty, stretching and yawning in all the dignity of a puppy. He was tired. The royal façade could rest. Besides, no one was watching. Encouraged by this thought, his tail wagged, a sparkle of movement in the corner of his eye. 

            Twitching… tensing… 

            Exploding in burst of movement, he whipped around and clamped his jaws together. The tail evaded him. Spurred on by tension and a need for a stress reliever, he promptly continued the chase, whirling in dizzying and useless circles in pursuit of the ever-nimble tail. Faster and faster he went, whirling around and kicking up snow with reckless abandon. 

            At last, he flopped to the ground, panting happily. 

            A dry wolf chuckle reached his ears, the throbbing rumble of amusement that he knew all too well. Wincing, Aragorn turned and saw Elrond sitting on the hill behind him, a wolf smile on his face. He tossed him a woof of acknowledgement, choosing to royally ignore the fact that the older wolf had obviously witnessed the whole thing. 

            Soft footfalls told him that Elrond was coming up behind him, and soon the black wolf was seated at his side, both of their gazes turned mutely to the East, scanning the sky for signs of trouble and tasting the wind for signs of hope. 

            The scene was eerily silent, and Aragorn was almost sure he could see something on the horizon, when he became conscious that Elrond was staring fixedly at him. He turned an inquisitive eye.   

            -You were born to be a King, Aragorn.-

            Startled by the words, the Numenor wolf pressed his ears back against his head and glanced away, partially out of confusion and partly out of a need to shy away from what was sounding dangerously like flattery. But Elrond nudged his side encouragingly, causing him to turn his head around again. 

            -I knew it from the moment I met you. When we traveled together. I could see it in your heart and in your spirit.-

            Aragorn nodded uncertainly, filled with wistful reminiscing about those times. In his years of wandering beyond the boundaries, he had run through the no-wolf territories. And though these years of journeys knocked him from beta position, he gained far more. During his aimless times, he had run into Elrond, back when he was the Loner, and the two had run side by side for many seasons. 

            What a time that had been! For both of them. Two black wolves darting through the empty land between territories, with no one but each other for company and Elrond's wise words filling his young mind. None in the Gondor pack had known of his travels with the Loner; it would have only pushed him farther down the ladder. 

            And here they sat, united again; this time in far unhappier circumstances, but running alongside each other once more. A bittersweet joy, indeed. 

            -You were a King even then, Aragorn. Only now is it that everyone chooses to acknowledge the right that was yours since birth.-

            A heavy silence fell once more as the two old friends simply locked eyes and shared strength, heartening and assuring, a pair of black statues of power frozen forever as a suspended moment of courage. At last, Aragorn rose to his feet again and stretched. Shrugging his shoulders, he looked to the East again, and sent a meaningful glance back at Elrond. The older wolf nodded. 

            -It is time to wake the others. The march must begin.-

            Aragorn did not hesitate. He trotted over to the sleeping mound of Legolas, the loyal beta who had run by his side through fire and death and who even now slept full of trust for the King. The Elven wolf was curled into a loose ball, and nestled in the curve of his body was the little fox Gimli. 

            Bowing his regal head, Aragorn nudged his dear friend gently. Instantly, Legolas was awake and smacking his lips, shaking sleep from his eyes. He glanced up at his alpha, and right away he knew it was time. Rising to his feet, a slight wince was the only giveaway that his wound still bothered him. But he put on a game face, even giving Aragorn a quick wolf smile before he marched down and stood in the clearing between the hills. 

            Elrond nudged Galadriel and Celeborn into wakefulness, and the alpha pair sprang to their feet on instinct before spotting the Half-breed and releasing a sigh of relief. Galadriel gave him a quick nuzzle with her head before trotting with her mate down to stand with Legolas. 

            Eomer woke himself, flopping around helplessly for a moment in the snowdrift that had grown around him as he slept. But then he was on his feet, shooting a sheepish grin at the smirking Eowyn nearby, shaking the snow from his ruff and joining his sister with the Elven wolves. 

            Glorfindel sprang into consciousness and knocked Elrohir and Elladan clear out of the sleeping mound, where they jumped to their feet with twin barks of annoyance. The seriousness on the face of Elrond quieted all three of them, and they slid over to be with the others. 

            Elrond's gaze lingered on the twins, his pups. As if feeling his eyes on them, they turned to look at him in confusion. He sighed and strove to put a smile on his face to replace the expression of longing. The two exchanged looks. Suddenly and unexpectedly, Elrohir broke away from his brother and trotted over to the older wolf. Elrond flattened his ears uncertainly, his eyes full of sadness and a thousand unspoken words of love. 

            And then Elrohir pressed his head up under Elrond's in a wolf embrace, an intense demonstration of affection usually reserved for… pups and their parents. The significance did not go unnoticed by Elrond, who dropped his head down on his pups back, a shuddering breath releasing from his lungs and their bodies pressed together. 

            And then a second body nestled against him as Elladan joined the embrace, and then a third as Arwen squashed herself in. The long-separated family rubbed bodies and whimpered softly, their eyes closed and simply enjoying the touch of each other. 

            On the hilltop, Pippin spontaneously threw himself on Merry with a yip and licked his face thoroughly and utterly. Merry wriggled uncertainly. 

            Moment of happiness over, Elrond sighed again and looked to the sky, silently thanking an invisible presence for this reunion. The three siblings nipped affectionately at each other, the brothers promptly falling into a tussle. 

            Everyone else had awoken at this time, and milled about nudging and nuzzling each other. Haldir threw himself proudly to his feet and promptly stumbled to his rear at the pain in his side. His alphas shot him scolding looks, and he remained seated in a huff of dignity. 

            Faramir, meantime, had staggered to a standing position, and he made it three steps before he crumpled under the wound in his hind leg. He was surprised when a concerned Eowyn leapt to his side and nuzzled him comfortingly. He was even more surprised when she planted a gentle lick on his face. 

            The wind was moving, the world was changing. The time to march East was upon them. Elrond and Aragorn galloped to the top of the highest hilltop and held poses of intense listening. Galadriel appeared between them, and the three exchanged a hushed discussion. 

            Suddenly, Elrond threw back his head and howled a clear note of fire. Aragorn mimicked the sound, only twice as loud. Galadriel harmonized. And then all of the wolves sat back on their haunches and sang in a symphony of trumpets. Fifteen voices lifted to the sky and thundered long and clear. 

            Haldir struggled over and sat down next to Faramir. Aragorn picked up Merry by the scruff and set him down with the other two wounded ones. He then shot a look at Legolas, but the Elven wolf simply held his head up proudly and walked in a stiff circle. Shaking his head, Aragorn could only admire his friend's stubbornness. 

            The three that remained would recover in the newly christened Hills of Healing. 

            But for the rest of the pack, a long journey lay ahead. Once across Gondor, they must cross Moria, and then they came to the Gate of Mordor. How they would breach the wall, they didn't know. It was a long walk. They would have time to think on it. 

            It was Aragorn who set off at an easy lope towards the East, with Elrond falling into step behind him, and then the remainder of the wolves picking up the rhythm. Then the yelps of protest reached their ears. 

            The Naugrim were running full tilt to keep up with the long-legged wolves. They wouldn't be able to keep up that pace all the way to Mordor. A moment of indecision lingered on the air. Limping with all the dignity he could muster, Legolas volunteered to travel at a slower tempo with the Naugrim and guide them into the Dark Land. Aragorn shot him a wink, and Legolas smirked back. 

            So it was decided. Pippin also elected to run with Naugrim, knowing he could never stay in line with the bigger wolves. Away the ten wolves went, the pace acceptable and easy in their eyes, their mighty stamina kicking into a level gear to carry them the many miles. 

            The March on Mordor had begun. 

~ To Be Continued       


	23. Onward, Onward

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: I realize that Theoden is referred to as Eomer and Eowyn's father in this chapter. Remember that I changed some relations to fit wolf structure. 

Flamerule – Thank you for taking a chance with my story. Your review is very intelligent and well-crafted. In answer; Frodo is being driven instinctively into Mordor by forces unknown. He is just gifted with wisdom beyond his years, and he knows Mordor can only be beaten from the inside. 

Amarth – You are the one-hundredth reviewer! Yay! (streamers and confetti go everywhere) 

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!

Chapter Twenty-Three

~          

            Forward!

            The Great Pack swept easily along the vast tundra, their long legs eating up the miles and carrying them ever closer to the gates of Mordor. But what awaited them there? Doom or victory? None could tell. 

            At the head ran Aragorn. His stride was proud and certain, his head was lifted high. Wind from their speed lifted his ruff in a grand rippling pattern, rolling like an ocean and blacker than a ravens' wing. And in his eyes there was a fire of determination such as the tundra had never seen before. 

            To his right was Elrond. The Half-breed was taller than Aragorn, and more slender. His legs were longer and worked at not the quite the same hasty pace as the King's; it took him less effort to travel quickly. His head turned from side to side, his eyes drifting closed occasionally as he let his ears and nose take over in guiding him. 

            On Aragorn's left ran Galadriel. She moved like a queen and seemed to float over the earth rather than pound it with her feet. Golden fur glistened in the sunlight, and her long tail streamed out behind her like a banner. Her eyes were focusing straight ahead, as visions of Mordor fell out before her gaze. Her heart trembled. But then she saw Aragorn at her side, and she was heartened. 

            Eomer and Eowyn traveled side by side. Their sibling bond had only been strengthened by the death of their father, Theoden, and now they depended on each other more than ever. Eomer was thinking of the battle to come; Eowyn's thoughts lingered back in the Hills of Healing, resting with a certain young wolf with a handsome brown coat. A wolf smile split her face. 

            Glorfindel kept to himself on the journey. His mind wandered to distant horizons, thinking of things that were inevitably coming towards him. Suppose he should be killed? Or perhaps Elladan and Elrohir, the last of his pack? What then? Or even heavier on his mind was the question… What if Aragorn should be victorious and the Numenor wolves crowned rulers of the land? What would become of the Elven wolves then? Would they be doomed to drift from the tundra and be forgotten by all? 

            Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen ran in a tight bunch. The brothers raced on either side of their sister, keeping her fenced in and using their bodies as protection against hidden guns. Black wolves in particular made easy targets against the white snow, and this they knew. Even though she insisted that they leave, they stubbornly held their position. 

            It was Celeborn at the back that had absolutely no doubt whatsoever. His heart was at peace and his spirit was lifted in joy. He knew that, should he die in the battle to come, his death would be an honorable one and it would not be in vain. And he knew that, if Aragorn became the King of the Tundra and the Numenors came to power, he, Celeborn, would always have his beloved mate Galadriel, and they would always have their beautiful land to run free in before the sun set on their lives. So Celeborn rejoiced, and ran with the most confidence of all the wolves in the pack, because he knew this to be so. 

             Onward, wolves! Onward, King Aragorn! To Mordor!

            ~

            A distance behind them, a moving wave of brown shuffled determinedly along the snowy earth. With their bodies pressed together and their gazes locked on the ground under their feet, the Naugrim looked like on gigantic mass of tawny fur, rolling shapelessly across the land. 

            In their midst limped a tall blond wolf, his strides stilted by the wound in his leg. Still Legolas kept a proud eye on the East, straining his eyes and almost convincing himself that he could see Aragorn waiting for him on the next hilltop, or sitting down the next slope. But the Great Pack was much farther ahead, and even the keen eyes of the Elven wolf could not see him. 

            Pippin tumbled along on a level with the Naugrim, a bouncing ball of curly brown fur that was constantly trying to initiate a yipping conversation with his travel mates. But the foxes ignored him, although Gimli spared him a bark or two about how unnatural his boundless energy was. Pippin took it as a compliment. 

            It was an awesome sight; this crawling horde of muddy bodies driving always towards the East, a single, large pale figure walking right in the middle of them. Still they moved relentlessly forward, and still Mordor drew closer. 

            Forward, Naugrim! Forward, Legolas the Brave! Mordor awaits you!

            ~

            Snap!

            Frodo's eyes flew open with a yelp. The nightmare had been more terrible than he had ever thought a nightmare could be. He had seen death and destruction. He had glimpsed a land of Armageddon and the Great Hunter, with skeletons walking abroad over the earth and monstrous factories belching smoke into sweltering skies. The bodies of loved companions were strewn across the tundra in a morbid display of blood and fur. The sun never rose again. 

            But here he was, awake and safe, with loyal Sam sleeping at his side and the sun just coming into the sky. The rays of warmth were hindered, however, by the actual clouds of smoke that wound their filthy tendrils across the sky. Frodo sighed deeply, suddenly wishing that he had never left the Shire at all… 

            A slinking form at the corner of his eye arrested his attention. 

            Gollum loomed ominously less than three feet away from him. 

            But before Frodo could sound a warning bark of alarm, the scrawny wolf had vanished like a ghost; the only sign of his presence a dust cloud he had kicked up that now hovered uncertainly on the air. 

            As if sensing Frodo's fear, Sam awoke and smacked his jaws together noisily. He clambered to his feet and stretched long and hard, before standing up and shaking the sleep from his ruff. 

            Frodo still lay curled on the ground, the Ring pulling down on his neck and irritating him to the point of pain. A thin whine escaped him, a whisper of agony that did not avoid Sam's notice. The beta sat down heavily next to the pup and whimpered useless comforts. 

            And still the sun climbed higher in the sky, warning them that their journey was not over yet…

            ~

            So began the march through Mordor.

            Their pace was agonizingly slow; Frodo could barely move at a fast walk, let alone a run of any sort. Even though Sam did his best to walk slowly, the pup would still gradually lag behind until they had to stop entirely that he might rest. Always he was pawing at the Ring, and always it stayed as firmly clamped around his throat as ever. 

            There was no food and no water. They ate what patches of dirty snow they could find in hopes of relieving the insatiable thirst that clawed at their parched mouths. The hunger that plagued that plagued them was not as easy to remedy. On their third day of travel, Sam spotted a scrawny rabbit, and after a desperate chase they feasted on the carcass. 

            Their speed diminished with every day, until at last they were hardly moving at all. Sam tipped his head up to the sky and squinted. The sun was all but completely hidden now. They were dangerously close to the factories. They simply could not be dragging themselves at this pace; it kept them too long in unsavory territory. 

            Turning back to Frodo, Sam circled around and came up behind him, sliding his stubby nose under the pup's body and lifting him up onto his back. A paw that came near his face he grabbed lightly in his teeth, steadying the alpha in his place. Sam then set off at a more determined pace than ever. 

            Frodo rode silently on Sam's back for two days. It was as tragic and moving as a picture as one could imagine; the weary and starving beta still trotting unstoppably onwards, driven only by his inner strength and need to complete the task that Frodo had set himself on. 

            And always lagging a distance behind them was a scrawny bag of bones, a mere skeleton now with grey fur bagging off the impossibly thin frame. But this one could not be stopped; he was indomitable until death, and the fires of insanity burned in his huge yellow eyes, which bulged grotesquely out of his gaunt face. 

            On the three went, until at last their journey came to a climax. 

            ~

            It was on the fifth day of their travel. Two days of carrying a pup on his back and with nothing to eat. The sun was gone. Night had come. Hope was lost. 

            Sam drew himself to the top of a dirty hill and collapsed, utterly spent and unable to go on. 

            But as if by some hidden power, Frodo rose to his feet and stood, electrified, staring straight ahead at some awesome and hidden sight. 

            Following his alpha's example, Sam came up behind him and could only stare. 

            Before them loomed the awesome and terrible factory of Orodruin. It clawed at the sky and a monstrous, shapeless black hulk, spewing pollution into the air and roaring with the fury of a thousand furnaces. It was from this source that the Hunter drew all of his power. It was from here that every single gun and every single airplane was given the strength to function. 

            So it was this wretched place that they were bound to. 

            And even as Frodo stumbled resolutely down towards the entrance, Sam followed with a breath held in disbelief. 

            How?

            ~

            The Great Pack slowed to a stop like a train trying to put on the brakes too suddenly. Three days of running and they all slid to a halt very ungracefully, but managing to keep their dignity. 

            Aragorn nodded his head solemnly. Elrond closed his eyes and sighed. Galadriel's ear twitched. Eomer and Eowyn leaned into each other. Glorfindel shuddered deeply. Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen clustered into a bunch. Celeborn wagged his tail once but remained silent. 

            They stood before the Black Gates of Mordor. 

            They were closed. 

~ To Be Continued  


	24. The Beginning of the End

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Things are drawing to a climax, here… I hope I've properly conveyed the utter despair and ultimate hope in this situation. So, forward! The Dark Land is waiting!

Chapter Twenty-Four   

~ 

            The wind was the only sound. 

            The Great Pack moved in silence, as the sudden impossibility of their task dawned on them and left them in a peculiar state of shock. 

            Celeborn hurried to Galadriel's side, and the two mates rubbed their bodies together nervously. He planted a sound lick on her ear; she brought her head under his chin. Their golden tails entwined together.

            The others stood in various stages of thinking. It was Eowyn who suddenly realized that she was afraid. She had gone through the Paths of the Dead, and she had slain the leader of the Nazgul. But she had done this for Aragorn, and he had been always nearby. Now, her love was waiting on a hilltop for her, and she was miles away. Could she go running into the Dark Land knowing that Faramir trusted in her return? 

            Glorfindel was uncertain. The other two members of his pack, Elladan and Elrohir, were bunched up with their sister Arwen, so the Imladris alpha stood alone. His breath created fine puffs of fog before him, and these he watched with a weary eye. He was an older wolf, not old per se but certainly no longer in his youth. Long had his pack been run with customs and decorum of days immemorial. Yet in these past few months, everything had turned upside-down. Would the madness ever stop?

            It was a surprise when Elrond trotted over to him with a wolf smile. 

            -What troubles you, Glorfindel? Do you fear the battle ahead?-

            Glorfindel was offended by the unintentional suggestion of cowardice, and he rumbled ominously. However, it was clear even to him that Elrond meant no harm, so he instead shot a meaningful look in Aragorn's direction, allowing the Half-breed of the elder mind to see into his eyes.

            -You fear the rise of the Numenor?-

            The black wolf sighed and sat down next to the blond one, their fur rippling in that same wind as they continued to hold eye contact. 

            -Aragorn is wise and strong. He will be a fine King of the Tundra. Fear not; he has too much love and respect for the Elven wolves to let them fall into forgetfulness. And as for your fate, alpha of Imladris… I cannot be sure. But I do know this; I owe you everything for raising my pups well.-

            At last, Glorfindel smiled, and the two of them turned heartened eyes to the East. 

            It was Aragorn who lingered in doubt. His spirit was in turmoil; how could it be done? Was he expected to lead them into Mordor to conquer all and cleanse the tundra? Was he expected to march up to the gates and have them open before his mighty battle cry? 

            A soft lick on the cheek interrupted his morbid thoughts. Arwen stood there, her eyes full of trust and love. 

            Oh, yes, that was answer enough. 

            The two of them embraced in the fashion of wolves, their necks pressed together so that their heads rested on each others' backs. Long they remained in this way, and forever they could have if Elrond had not cleared his throat dryly, his tail wagging. 

            So. On to business. 

            Celeborn, Aragorn, Eomer, and Elrond branched off and ran right up to the gate, sniffing it and inspecting it carefully. Aragorn was examining its' center, where it would open, while Eomer was shoving his shoulder up against it repeatedly. Celeborn and Elrond were discussing various methods of breaching the wall. 

            They were before the Black Gate, the chief entrance into Mordor. When Gollum, Sam, and Frodo had passed into darkness, they had gone in through one of the lesser passages, leading them into the interior of the Wall. This Gate, however, opened right into Mordor, and was their best choice of admittance. 

            Now if only they could get it open. 

            The wolves took turns investigating it, each putting forward their own ideas and none of them working. At last, they lounged about and stared at the Gate, as though the power of their eyes could melt it. 

            Nothing. 

            All hope seemed lost when, in a moment they should have expected by now, the cry of an eagle filled the air. 

            Up on their feet they went as Gandalf came gliding lazily into view, at last swooping down to settle on Elrond's back, seemingly oblivious to the state of distress all the wolves were in. He spoke into the mind of the Half-breed. 

            -What are you all standing about for?-

-It may have escaped your notice, Winged One, but we with only four legs have no means of breaching the Wall.-

-Why don't you just open the Gate?-

-This may also have eluded you, but we are in the midst of deciding how to do precisely that.-

-Then perhaps I may offer you the key.-

-Key?-

They were cut off by a rumble of distant thunder. The ground shook beneath the wolves' paws, and they glanced about in alarm. 

The Ents were coming!

Up and over the hills from the South the moose came, their long strides carrying them effortlessly along as they swept in one great wave towards the Gate. Their mossy antlers again gave the striking image of a moving forest, as the great shapes seemed to be almost like branches. 

Elrond shook his head. He should have been used to Gandalf's surprises by now. 

It was Treebeard who came trotting right up to the wolves, his large head swinging from side to side and his breath smoking out of his nostrils. One giant hoof pawed at the ground as he spoke to their minds. 

-What have we missed, little wolves? Don't tell us that we're too late for battle! The Ents have not fought in some time, you know…-

The remaining moose tossed their heads and made that strange –Hoom, hom, hoom, hom…- sound amongst themselves. 

Aragorn and Elrond exchanged knowing looks. 

Moments later, the Black Gate was under heavy assault. A concentrated group of Ents was using their mighty antlers as battering rams, hammering at the structure with stubborn tenacity. 

Boom. 

Boom. 

The wolves sat together on their hilltop, watching and nodding. Truth be told, Aragorn had all but forgotten that the Ents would be coming to meet them; Elrond hadn't expected them to get here with such timing. As with most of Gandalf's aid, this came at the moment when all seemed lost. 

Boom. 

Boom. 

Treebeard and his folk were not to be swayed, not even by the fierce and powerful gates of Mordor. Again and again they butted against it, and each time Treebeard insisted that the next hit would be the last one needed. Still, the pounding continued. 

Boom. 

Boom. 

Elrond shook his head nervously. Surely the Enemy knew of their position by now; perhaps at this very moment he was sending out his troops! Nazgul, Orcs, and worse could be waiting behind that gate when they opened it. Rising to his feet, the black wolf paced about restlessly. 

Boom. 

Crack. 

As one, the wolves sprang to their feet, alert, as the Gate splintered down the middle. The crack was massive, and the Ents hammered at it with renewed enthusiasm. 

Crack. 

Crack. 

In less than two minutes, the Gate had been reduced to firewood. Massive panels were scattered across the snow, and the larger splinters were being dragged to either side by the wolves. 

The Black Gate was open. 

Their path stretched out before them, the Black Land sprawling before their eyes in all its' horrors. The smoke of factories plumed morbidly in the distance, rolling towards them in filthy waves. 

Celeborn flattened his ears and coughed disdainfully. Elrond chuckled, relieved by this distraction. 

-Yes, it reeks of smoke and evil. Not a smell we wolves are accustomed to.-

Eomer volunteered a woof about being used to the smell of evil anyway, and Eowyn snorted at the memory of their beta, Wormtongue. She tried to imagine him standing with them there at the Gate; in her minds' eye she saw the scrawny grey wolf skittering about before the ruins, yipping nervously and eyes darting around in terror. 

What had become of Wormtongue? None but Legolas had been present at his death, and in the battle his carcass had been lost. A shame, that; she herself would have loved to see the traitor stretched out the ground, those eerie eyes glassy and that wicked throat torn open. 

Realizing that she was taking far too much pleasure from the image of her dead enemy, she hurriedly turned her thoughts back to the present. 

At last, Aragorn ventured towards the Gate. A few cautious steps carried him inside, where he looked around for a moment, sniffing the air and glancing about for any sign of waiting disaster. 

Nothing. 

He tossed an encouraging bark over his shoulder, and the other wolves loped in after him. There they stood, a pack of ten preparing to advance into the heart of all evil in the tundra. 

No turning back. 

Treebeard and the Ents rumbled after them, insisting they be allowed to fight as well. Aragorn was not about to deny them; they needed all the help they could get. 

There was a suspended moment as the wolves stood together and looked into each others' eyes. This could very well be the last time they were all together in peace and harmony. A battle lay ahead, a battle from which it was very likely not all of them would return…

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn walked resolutely towards the East. The rest fell in line beside him.

It was time. 

~ To Be Continued 


	25. Apocalypse

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Alrighty, I shall answer questions---

Tigerlily --- You're absolutely right. The Ents, according to the book, did not assist at Mordor. However, ten wolves against an army is pretty stiff odds, so I'd thought I'd give them a little help. And also, I am not going to do the scouring of the Shire, just because I have no Saruman and therefore have nothing that needs scouring.

I guess those were all the questions that needed answering. ^_^

A brief warning about this chapter; for those squeamish about blood, combat, and various things involved in battle, please take care. This chapter is a bit… gruesome. 

Please enjoy. 

Chapter Twenty-Five

~

            It was quiet. Too quiet. 

            Carefully picking his way across the rocky Mordor terrain, Aragorn swiveled his ears about, straining to pick up the sounds of any life. Nothing. Raised in the warm and free tundra, Aragorn had spent his whole life listening to birds chirping, caribou lowing, and the lemmings chattering as they scurried through the grass. The natural cries and rhythms of the land had been like a heartbeat in his spirit.

            But Mordor was dead. 

            The land was barren of any growth save the scrubby clumps of grass that poked feebly from between the rocks, battling for survival. There were no trees, or even bushes for the partridges to live in, so the voices of the birds were not present. 

            Caribou? A herd would be mad to be in here, even if there was no Wall. Same for the lemmings; for all their brainless activities, they gave Mordor a wise and wide berth. 

            And now here they were. Right in the middle of it. 

            Eomer was a young adult. Never before had he ventured from his territory. This peculiar and unnatural land was frightening him more than he cared to admit, so that he walked a little faster in order to be nearer to Aragorn. Eowyn, though, sensed his nervousness, and also quickened her pace to keep up with him. 

            Even the Ents had the sense to remain quiet. While they would normally be hoom-ing and hom-ing, they detected the unbearable tension and need for silence in the air, swinging their heavy heads from side to side but making no sound other than the rumble of their hooves, which was felt more than heard.

            The silence was terrible. It was crushing and deadly, pressing steadily on their minds and numbing their instincts to the point of agony. In that hideous absence of sound drifted in the poisonous scent of smoke, unnatural and gut-wrenching, so putrid and filthy that it threw their sensitive noses out of balance. 

            Something had to snap. 

            Elrohir bolted from the Pack in a panic, bewildered and terrified by the absence of sound and the over-powering presence of the smoke. He ripped across the dry earth, flying across the black land in a sort of possessed madness, his paws kicking up scores of pebbles and shattering whatever sense of quiet there had been. 

            Frenzied by his paranoia, the Pack divided uselessly. Elrond and Aragorn raced after Elrohir, and the other younger ranks dove for cover from an imaginary enemy. When a wolf sounds an alarm, it usually is for a very good cause. But Celeborn, Galadriel, and Glorfindel knew that there was no immediate danger, and they stayed more or less in a tight group, though Glorfindel broke off at one point to drag his terrified pack mate, Elladan over to stand with him. 

            Perhaps Elrohir would have kept running and been unable to be stopped. Perhaps he would have darted down some crevice or ravine, too blind in panic to do anything. But he stopped dead in his tracks when a huge flurry of white and black wings was suddenly inches from his face. 

            A bristling Gandalf had alighted on the ground, and as awkward as that was he managed to flap his wings into a hurricane of motion, at once so startling and noisy that even the hysterical Elrohir slid to a halt. He was nose to beak with the angriest eagle the tundra had ever seen, and he only stood with his tail tucked between his legs in meek submission. Gandalf, with all his feathers ruffled and sticking out in his bad mood, lectured him sharply through eye contact. 

            -Fool! You run and bolt when the real danger is still a long journey ahead! Waste your energy now before the real battle lines are even drawn!-

            Aragorn and Elrond came panting up alongside their comrade, pressing their bodies against Elrohir to prevent him from running again. The Half-breed spoke on his sons' behalf.

            -Forgive him, Gandalf. Forgive all of them. They are untried in such circumstances. There wasn't enough time. There just wasn't enough time.-

            The two remained locked in eye contact for a few tense moments. Finally, Elrond walked up alongside the eagle and stood next to him, inviting Gandalf to ride on his back. The offer was accepted, and in a storm of pounding wings the bird was up on his perch. 

            By now, the three Elven alphas had managed to round the rest of the Pack up into a neat bunch, where they clustered together in states of shame and embarrassment. Aragorn brushed the incident off lightly, giving Elrohir an affectionate nuzzle and starting off again into the East. 

            The rest followed him, ready to die fighting by his side. 

            ~

            Two nights and a day they traveled, covering in thirty-six hours what had taken Frodo and Sam five days of walking. Now in the distance loomed Orodruin, mere a blotch of darkness against the red horizon. They did not know their little friends were so close. They did not know that all the power of Mordor was contained in that one factory. 

            What they did now was that the Enemy was moving. 

            It was only a few hours past dawn. The sun was still fresh in the sky, only just beginning its' lazy ascent into the heavens. Storm clouds were building angrily in the distance. The silence was now so electrifying it was almost unbearable. 

            The Pack stood on a great slope, their numbers staggered along its' length in a sketchy formation, their keen eyes trained on the factories in the distance. Death was imminent, and all knew that it would not be the same number of wolves that walked away from this battle. 

            And all at once, Celeborn threw back his head and sang a clear, high note. Galadriel at once joined him, and the two harmonized sweetly. Eomer's rich baritone slid up the scale in counterpoint. Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen all started at the same time, with Eowyn shortly afterwards, followed by Glorfindel. Elrond's voice lifted in tune, and lastly Aragorn's note of thunder punctuated the song. 

            It was song of victory. A song of longing and sorrow, of yearning for the green days of old. It was a song of pain and triumph. It was a song that promised strength and boosted courage. But most of all, it was a song that ignited hope once more. 

            So that when the forces of evil finally appeared to them, they were not afraid. 

            ~

            The Great Hunter had turned out all his forces. 

            The Orcs were a great blot upon the land, their ugly snouts lifted in growls of bloodlust, their scraggly black pelts like thorns and brambles. They were filthy and disgusting, and the only they thought about now was killing.

            Not only Orcs, but Wargs also. Wargs were rather like Orcs, in truth, but much bigger and stronger. Their jaws were capable of crunching bones to mere shards in one powerful clamp, and they were known to hold on to the death once they seized their prey. 

            The ranks were littered with Hunters, not Nazgul, but still just as deadly. Their rifles, powered by energy from Orodruin, gleamed in the light of the fresh sun, which had suddenly turned harsh and cold in the sky. They seemed mildly surprised by the appearance of the Ents, but otherwise showed no reaction. 

            But they had brought Trolls. 

            Monstrous, hulking bears, with shaggy heads and massive paws, their jaws itching to close on flesh and their deep, rumbling roars sending chills into the pack. Most of them had never seen a bear before, let alone a Troll, with their mossy coats and claws like daggers. 

            A long battle was before them. 

            Rather than delay things any longer, Aragorn rose up on his hind legs and gave the trumpeting attack call. And down from their hill the Pack came, with the Ents gaining momentum and sweeping past them on long legs. 

            So it was that the Ents were the first to smash into the ranks of Orcs and Wargs, sending bodies flying and screams of agony into the air. Treebeard himself made right for the nearest Troll, and as the bear rose up to meet him the mighty Ent lowered his head and went full speed ahead. The huge antlers punctured the Troll's abdomen, and the beast gave a piercing shriek of pain as ribs shattered and its' lungs were ripped to pieces. It fell dead, steam rising off its' massive corpse.

            One down, several hundred to go. 

            The wolves broke into the fray like lightning. Aragorn worked with smooth precision, pivoting and leaping like a dancer, claws flashing and teeth slashing. Orc blood sprayed him and he heeded it not. He thought of Legolas, his comrade, and how he wished for his presence. He thought of Arwen, his beloved, and how he wished for her safety. Lastly, he thought of Boromir, and he wished the Gondor wolf could have lived to see this battle. He would have loved it so. 

            Elrond was frighteningly ruthless, but he had reason to be. His pups were in this battle as well, and he fought for their lives as much as his own. So when Wargs and Orcs alike rushed to meet him, he plunged into their midst, ripping their jugulars with gruesome efficiency.

            Eomer fought with the same possessed spirit and frenzied power as Boromir had in the past. But for all his energy, he lacked the skill of Elrond and Aragorn, and failed to his kill his opponents on his first strike. The Orcs coming at him were already bloodied by his mark, and still they lived. Not for long, however; if his first strike was dizzying, his second was lethal. 

            Galadriel was like a queen even in the midst of the carnage. Her killings were regal, her ruthlessness as beautiful and terrible as the sea. Time stood still in her circle of battle, and the Orcs seemed to come in a sort of slower motion towards her, so that she had plenty of time to whirl and face each one. No match they were for the queen of the wolves.

            Celeborn, on the other hand, was not a fighter. He could attack and he could defend himself, but he could not kill. His teeth found shoulder or face when he went for the jugular, so that he was quickly fenced in by the Orcs as he had been in previous battles. A particularly monstrous Warg was moving in for the kill…

            …when a slender pale form came flying in from the skirmish and dealt the attacker a lethal blow. The dazed Celeborn vaguely recalled Haldir performing such a rescue for him, and thought immediately that his beta had come. But his savior was not Elven, but Eowyn herself that had flown to his rescue. She gave him a curt nod before racing back into combat. 

            Occasionally a body of an Orc or Warg flew into the air, thrown by an angry Ent, and remained suspended eerily against the sky before plummeting back into the terrors and adding to the piles of dead now strewn about the battlefield.

            But the battle was only beginning. 

            The sun continued to edge painstakingly into the sky, yet it never lost its' fiery tinge. It was a rich scarlet as it ascended, the color of the battlefield below. The storm clouds continued to build and rumble ominously. 

            Down into the fray spiraled Gandalf, his massive talons tearing into the faces of the Enemy. Screaming Orcs staggered around the field, blood streaming for their empty eye sockets. Wargs threw themselves to the earth in agony, their ears nothing but mere shreds of flesh. They were trampled by the Ents, their bodies pressed into the earth to be absorbed.

            It was a day of disaster. The guns of the Hunters did not fire, and the Trolls were being felled rapidly by the Ents. The few bullets that were set off were aimed at the great moose, but were lost in the great shaggy hides, unnoticed and doing no damage. But still the Orcs and Wargs provided a bitter assault, and ten wolves were not enough to fight several thousand of the fell creatures. 

            So they were pressed backwards.

            And even as they struggled for footing, going in reverse up the steep hill, even as they faltered, their fighting failing as they nearly fell, a most peculiar sensation swept through them. Like a tidal wave, a river of little furry bodies streamed between their legs, little ears and heads brushing up against the bellies of the bigger wolves. 

            Bewildered, Aragorn chanced a look back over his shoulder. 

            Legolas stood on the hill a little ways behind him, and the Elven wolf reared up on his hind legs and howled in a playful imitation of the battle cry of the King of the Tundra. Gimli stood with him, and the little fox mimicked the gesture, although being unable to howl he yipped noisily. Pippin was last, and when he attempted to rear up he promptly tumbled backwards and landed on his tail. But he gamely threw back his head and howled anyway.

            The Naugrim had arrived, and never before had Aragorn been so grateful to see his Elven companion in his life. Still limping, but overriding it, Legolas came barreling into combat with a bark and a yip. He was fresh and ready for action. 

            Pippin and Gimli also swept into the battle, disappearing under foot. Their presence was only noticeable when an Orc suddenly shrieked and leapt into the air, bleeding from his tender underside. 

            So the Naugrim worked their magic, giving the wolves a brief but noticeable reprieve from the battle. The Orcs and Wargs were a bit distracted at the moment… it is quite easy to lose one's focus when thousands of needle sharp teeth are chomping on very sensitive areas. 

            The Orcs and Wargs were beginning to fall back rapidly, screeching and dancing on the air as the Naugrim followed them, biting each other in their desperation to escape. The death toll increased as Wargs killed Orcs in their panic, and Orcs killed Wargs in their hysteria. They smashed into each other, teeth flying from mouths punched with heavy skulls.

            It was madness. Absolute chaos. 

            As the insane animals swept past the Trolls, the mighty bears fell dead or mauled under the frantic teeth and claws. One such beast, huge and hulking, had been on the verge of crushing a whole group of Naugrim. A sharp nip in its' ankle distracted it. The Troll, its' huge bear head swiveling down, spotted Pippin clinging in determination to its' leg. About to strike the killing blow, it suddenly threw back its' head and roared in agony as a foaming Warg dealt it a lethal strike in the back of the neck. 

            The huge body came plummeting towards the earth, and Pippin saw it too late. Though he spurred his little legs into action, the Hobbit wolf was overtaken. The carcass of the Troll fell upon him and he was buried alive under its' tremendous bulk.

            Overhead, the thunderhead cracked a terrifying roll of thunder. The Orcs and Wargs scattered rapidly, the Naugrim staying with them, while the lightning terrified the Ents and spooked them into a stampede, so that they broke and scattered across the land, their hooves pounding and shaking the earth. 

            That left the wolves and the Hunters. The two forces stared at each other in cold and dreaded silence, but neither side made an actual move. The tension was broken only by the cracks of thunder, becoming more and frequent. 

            And then he came. 

            Rising from between the midst of the Hunters, appearing from the smoke and haze like some ghastly apparition from the depths of hell, Sauron, the Great Hunter, towered over the scene. He wore thick heavy gloves and huge black boots. The ski mask over his head covered his features, but the helmet he wore with red infrared goggles gave him a face more hideous than imagined. Across his massive chest was a sash of pelts. 

            They recognized the skin of Wormtongue there. His body had been taken from the battlefield and stripped bare, his sparse grey coat now a trophy across the breast of the Enemy. The head had been left intact, so now the taut remains of a face watched them with empty eye sockets.

So the Great Hunter had come to settle this uprising once and for all.

            No one moved at all. Elrond longed to throw himself at his target and rid the world of the Hunter once and for all, but it would be folly. Aragorn, however, thought of something. In three sharp barks he commanded his Pack, and they flew at once to his command. 

            Splitting into groups of two, the Pack scattered and raced towards the Hunter. The outer groups brought themselves in faster, so Sauron was practically pinned in a semi-circle. They moved with such speed and desperation that even the other hunters could do nothing. 

            But then everything seemed to slow. Reaching behind him, Sauron pulled from its' holster a massive high-powered rifle, swinging it back around and leveling it before him, taking swift aim and firing a single shot. It ripped through the air and broke with more horrible certainty than the thunder overhead. 

            And the bullet found its' target. Because the Great Hunter never misses.

            Elrond screamed once and fell to the earth, a terrible hole punched into him with blood escaping freely into the earth. The bullet had entered at his right collarbone and gone clear through, tearing out behind the right shoulder, leaving an exit wound the size of a clenched fist. His back legs convulsed in agony, propelling him forwards across the earth as he writhed in pain. Arching his back, he rolled over onto his side and lay sickeningly still and quiet.

            And it was even as he stared in horror and disbelief, even as his tail dropped between his legs and his ears pressed back in confusion, even as he wanted to run to his fallen friend, Aragorn suddenly found himself looking down the crosshairs of a rifle. 

            At the other end of the gun, Sauron's finger was tightening on the trigger.

~ To Be Continued


	26. Orodruin

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: Yesh! This chapter is even messier than the last! Hold onto your hats! If lots of blood disturbs you… oh well. Can't say I didn't warn you. ^_^

Chapter Twenty-Six

~

            The smoke was impossibly thick.

            Sam squinted his eyes against it, but still the blackness invaded his vision and made his sensitive eyes water painfully, the moisture beading on his filthy coat and splashing noisily to the dry earth, where it was sucked greedily into the dirt. In Sam's ears, the silence of the area was broken by a thousand gunshots for every drop that hit the ground, the reverberations magnified by his own anxiety. 

            Up ahead, his wispy form almost snatched away by the smoke, he could barely discern Frodo trotting along, determined to the very end. His little tail drug on the ground behind him, too exhausted to lift it up any longer. His paws hardly lifted when he moved them, resigning him to a pitiful shuffle.

            And behind him he heard the limping gait of Gollum, heard the rasping breath; grunting and whining as he continued to talk to himself. Sam squared his shoulders with false bravado; if Gollum should make one last desperate attack, the beta was unsure if he possessed the strength to defend his alpha. 

            Suddenly and as if out of nowhere, the monstrous factory of Orodruin was before them, hulking and terrible. The great walls stretched up and disappeared into the smoke, giving an impression of infinity and more. At once, Frodo threw himself upon it, his large black nose sniffing along the wall defiantly, searching fiercely for any sort of entrance. 

            Sam padded wearily up to his alpha's side, giving the wall a single pained glance. The days and nights of endless walking were taking a toll on him; his body was thinner, his eyes were wearier, and his coat was beginning to lose its' curliness, as if it was constantly soaking wet and heavy. Even his jaw was aching; the constant chewing on the Ring had done him a bad turn. 

            Frodo fared little better, though his spirit was lighter. He still had the optimism and stubborn courage that only a puppy knows; a puppy who has no true sense of danger and pain. Frodo had this knowledge, he had tasted death, and yet he retained that tenacious, innocent air about him, keeping him moving though the Ring was now unbearably heavy. 

            Lingering in the ragged bushes nearby, Gollum watched. 

            The stump of his tail was rotten and infected, oozing painfully and causing him great agony whenever he even twitched it in the slightest. It was just far back enough that he couldn't reach it and lick it clean, which normally would have kept it from becoming so mangled. 

            His eyes were those of a creature pushed past the limits of all sanity and reason. The pain in his tail, the death of his pack, the lust for the Ring, the terrifying voice of instinct that now beat like a drum in the back of his mind; all were too much for one wolf to handle. It all came spiraling down into his brain like through a great funnel, funnel that was sending in only madness and fury. He did not hear the roaring of the gears inside the factory; he heard only the sound of Frodo's footsteps. He did not see Orodruin itself in all its' hideousness; he saw only the sight of Frodo wandering along the wall. 

            Possessed by the Ring itself. 

            Just then, Frodo lifted his head and barked sharply to Sam. Gollum flinched backwards involuntarily at the suddenness of the sound, while the beta sprang forward dutifully to his alpha's side. 

            A door. An open door. 

            Right away, Frodo disappeared into the murky interior. Sam hesitated for a moment, staring apprehensively at the oppressive darkness, before plunging in. Gollum did not follow.

            Inside, all the power of Mordor was created. 

            Sauron himself had designed it. Every single helicopter, every single snowmobile, every single gun was powered from this one enormous powerhouse. The generators, thundering at deafening volumes, were large enough individually to be the size of small houses. All together, it gave the appearance that, if they were stacked up, it could be a whole mountain. Not mountain; volcano.

            The whole place was illuminated with a hellish red glow, thrown from the generators and ricocheting off the pumping machinery all around, making the entire area feel like being inside of a fire; the flickering orange and red light was overwhelming. 

            Sam and Frodo stood there in the doorway, gaping, awestruck, unable to move or even breathe. They could only stare in sad horror at this machine born of man. Sam closed his eyes, desperately trying to summon a vision of the Shire to mind. Frodo swallowed hard, only just now realizing that perhaps there was no way to stop Sauron after all. 

            But they couldn't give up yet. 

            Wearily dragging himself into motion, Frodo moved into the factory, Sam right on his heels. They went at a slow pace, prowling cautiously for fear of any sudden danger springing into sight. But all personnel – guards, workers, anyone – had been dispatched to the great battle, of which the two Hobbit wolves were unaware. 

            A long flight of stairs appeared before them, curving up and out of sight, wrapped like a smothering boa constrictor around one of the largest generators. Frodo began the final climb, Sam still behind him and casting wary glances over his shoulder. 

            The going was long and hard. The stairs were made of strips of metal, interwoven in a tight grid. The upturned edges of the metal felt painful and unnatural under their paws, and they winced with every step. Still they climbed. They went entirely around the huge generator, at last reaching the top.

            Before them was the belly of the beast. The generators were open at the top, so that the wolves could see right down into the churning mass of gears and electricity. A narrow footbridge lead across the entire mouth of the thing, meant to be used for technical repairs. 

            Where to now? Frodo and Sam exchanged tired glances, now completely at a loss. What could they do up here? Should they go out on the bridge?

            Gollum answered that last question for them. 

            He came barreling up the stairs, flying from around the railing and slamming the full force of his body into Frodo's. His momentum carried them both halfway out onto the dangerously skinny bridge, tumbling end over end, paws and claws scrambling to get a footing, while the gears whirred hungrily below. 

            Not wasting any time, Gollum bit hard into the back of Frodo's neck, causing the pup to scream sharply in agony. The insane wolf was all teeth, and he snapped furiously on anything he could get his mouth on. The flying jaws ripped into Frodo's right ear, tearing the delicate flesh clean off the pup's head, leaving behind a gaping and bloody hole. 

            Still at the far end of the bridge, Sam stood frozen for almost two whole seconds, so in shock and exhaustion. But at the sound of Frodo screaming, he threw himself into motion, barking warnings and death threats to the grey wolf. 

            But Gollum's frantic attack was not in vain. The flailing teeth found their mark… along the inside of the Ring, right at the back, was a tiny, almost impossible to find button. When depressed, it would release the catch on the Ring, freeing its' wearer. 

             Click. 

            Suddenly, even through the pain and the haze, Frodo felt the weight of the Ring lifted from him. It passed over his head, seemingly in a slower motion than actually happening, leaving him to slump into a dark and encompassing realm of unconsciousness, his body collapsing in a heap into the middle of the bridge. 

            Gollum stood there, sides heaving for air, the brilliant gold Ring clutched in his teeth passionately. His eyes darted around wildly, as though he hardly dared to believe that he had succeeded. The good fortune seemed too good to be true. 

             But it didn't last for long. 

            Sam took one flying leap over where Frodo lie, lifting into the air and smashing into Gollum with all the impact of a cannonball. Only this cannonball had teeth, claws, and a lust for vengeance. 

            Back-pedaling crazily, Gollum attempted to spin around and make a run for it. He felt Sam's teeth closing on his hind leg… tried to shake him off… suddenly, there was no ground beneath his front paws, and he was falling… 

            Gollum plummeted off the bridge, back arching and legs trying to run on air, moving in a distorted sense of slow motion. The gears raced up to meet him, yawning wildly to accept his scrawny body as a bizarre sacrifice. 

            Crunch. 

            The legs went first. The generators were slow-moving and patient, dragging Gollum in and giving him time to savor his excruciating death. At first he didn't seem to realize it, stubbornly trying to pull himself out and still holding onto the Ring. But as the gears closed on his hindquarters, the screaming began. 

            It wasn't quite screaming. That was too loose a term to describe it. It was howling, screeching, something beyond any person's deepest and most horrible nightmares. It was, in attempts to find words that even come close, the screaming of the damned. 

            Sam tried to look away, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the gruesome sight. By now, the gears were halfway up Gollum's midsection, and the blood flowed from his mouth like a waterfall. Abruptly, the screaming stopped. The body continued to twitch and jerk erratically, but the fire in the eyes had gone out. Gollum was dead, even as his remains were crushed into nothing.

            The Ring was still clutched in his jaws, even as his head passed into the gears. 

            Everything stopped.

            In its' indestructible metal quality, the Ring became jammed between two gears. The machine groaned painfully under this sudden obstruction. The whining increased, but the Ring refused to budge. It was stuck fast, and only human interference could remove it. 

            The whole generator began to rumble. Sam knew in that instant that it was time to leave. Racing back down the bridge, he threw Frodo on his back for the second time and all but fell down the stairs in his haste to get down. 

Back across the dark floor of the factory… 

            The shuddering was spreading to the rest of the generators.

            Out the doorway…

            The whining was increasing to unbearable intensity. 

            Across the hills…

            Something was going to explode. 

            BOOM.

~ To Be Continued 


	27. Finale

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: I can only apologize for taking so long to update; I will not make any pathetic excuses, merely beg for your forgiveness. This is not the last chapter of the story; there will be an epilogue after this. ^_^

Chapter Twenty-Seven

~

            Even as Aragorn thought he looked upon the world for the last time, as the barrel of the gun became everything and anything he could see, his vision unable to venture past that gleaming rod of steel as though it had hypnotized him… 

            Even as Elrond lay gasping on the ground, his blood pooling around him and his eyes glazing over, straining to rise, wishing to rise, but unable to get to his feet to aide his companion… 

            Even as Arwen lurched forward, desperate to do anything to intervene, anything to prevent the Great Hunter from claiming her love and her father in the same brutal and vicious blow…

_            Gollum plummeted off the bridge._

The earth shook beneath their feet. Aragorn pressed his ears against his head and flinched, but decided to stand and face death with courage. He waited for the moment, the moment when the bullet would go right between his eyes, the moment when darkness would claim him for all eternity. 

            The moment never came. 

            Sauron's finger closed on the trigger to no avail. A hollow clicking sound was the only sign he had even done anything. Orodruin had been stalled, the factory had ceased to produce energy, and all around the battlefield, guns sang with an ever-decreasing hum as the power drained from their systems. 

            For all machinery employed by the Great Hunter and his minions were powered by that one awesome machine, Orodruin, the thousand of gears pumping and whirring and pulsing out energy in inexplicable waves. This was a fatal tactical error on Sauron's part – all his power in one source? – but perhaps forgivable; who could have foreseen the amazing events of recent days?

            Either way, the thunder of the final bullet never fired. 

            It took Aragorn a long moment to realize this. When he remained conscious, when he did not feel any lead slamming into his skull, he used up an instant of precious reaction time thanking anyone who was listening for whatever had just happened. 

            Then he sprang. 

            Up into the air, launched like a rocket by sheer adrenaline and need to finish the conflict, his whole muscular form came completely off the ground. Black fur shining with the blood of battle, emerging through the smoke of earlier gunfire, teeth and claws itching to imbed into the flesh of an enemy…

            And this weapon of flaming determination was soaring right at Sauron's heart. 

            For his part, the Great Hunter proved an admirable combatant to the end. Flipping his rifle around in his hands, he now held the barrel and swung the handle around as a club, smashing right into Aragorn's side. The wolf was knocked from his flight, but pivoted swiftly on his paws the moment they touched the earth, launching back up again and giving Sauron no time to pull back for another swing. 

            What Aragorn hadn't counted on was a knife flashing from Sauron's belt. 

            The blade ripped across his face, just missing his left eye and instead carving a mark just above it. Blood flowed down across his vision, blinding him physically, while the pain blinded his senses. He staggered backwards. 

            Mind over matter, Legolas had apparently forgotten his leg injury when he bounded and pounced, lifting up into the air and landing squarely on Sauron's back, sending him sprawling to the ground. Straddling the Hunter, Legolas threw his weight down, too busy avoiding the knife to maneuver a killing blow, instead striking uselessly at Sauron's body armor. 

            The few moments Legolas bought with his reckless attack gave Aragorn the sufficient time to recover well enough, and he shook his head violently, sending the blood splattering but clearing his vision. 

            Lunging forward, he sank his teeth into Sauron's neck, jaws crushing down with more power than any wolf before him had ever exhibited, punching right through the armor of the neck and pressing relentlessly on the windpipe. 

            With life ebbing away, Sauron fought like the devil himself. It took the combined weight of Aragorn and Legolas to hold him down, until at last all air had been used up and his body could struggle no more. It was not until he had lain still for many minutes did the wolves stalk away from the corpse in disgust. 

            Sauron the Great Hunter was slain. 

            There was long moment as the wolves studied the remaining hunters, a long, suspended period of time in which the world of Man and the world of the Wild was almost touching, holding each other in a bizarre sort of respect. The tense silence was broken by a single, united yell that rose from the humans, as they turned and fled for the remains of their factories. 

            The wolves danced lightly after them, speeding over the carcasses of Orcs and Wargs, flying into the air, lifted on the wings of victory, slamming into their opponents and snuffing them out with all the brutal efficiency the men had used themselves in their murder of the wolves. The hunter became the hunted. 

            Within minutes, the war was over. 

            All was silent. 

            ~

            At the moment when the first shot from Sauron was fired, Gandalf the great eagle was already far, far away. He ripped through the sky at a breakneck speed, splitting apart the clouds in his haste. A blur of white he became, screaming through the air until at last Orodruin came into view. 

            He saw the factory shaking, heard the death howls of Gollum as the gears sucked him to his death. A catastrophe was imminent; the entirety of Orodruin was shuddering under unimaginable strain. 

            Sam came rocketing out of the door, Frodo's scruff clenched defiantly in his teeth, the pup lifted proudly in front of him even though he obviously knew the end was near. Gandalf's heart leapt into his throat at the sight of the two Hobbit wolves, alive, victorious, and he gave a cry of joy. 

            Head snapping up wildly, Sam's eyes met Gandalf's. He could have wept with relief. And though the world was about to go out, he was glad to be with Frodo at the end of all things. 

            He hardly felt Gandalf's talons lifting him by the scruff, was hardly aware of the sensation of flying as they soared into the air. He only knew one thing; hold on. His grip on Frodo's scruff was merciless and unstoppable, and so he carried the pup with him as he rose into the sky. 

            Orodruin erupted beneath them, blasting into a thousand pieces in an explosion he hadn't seen since the destruction of the Balrog in the ravine. Masonry hurtled into the air, blown like cannonballs by the force of the rupturing generators. 

            Then for Sam, everything went black, as unconsciousness claimed him at last. 

            But he did not let go of his alpha.

            ~

            Rain had begun to fall. 

            Aragorn staggered through the carnage, stumbling on the bodies, reeling from shock and the absolute draining of adrenaline and energy from his body. He saw what he was seeking, he raced to it… 

            He and Arwen met, their bodies pressed side by side, heads resting on the others' back, breath heaving in their chests and sighing out in relief. The rain matted their fur, washing the blood from their coats and leaving them a glorious shade of ebony, black as night. 

            Gimli exploded through the battlefield, scrambling for footing and at last tumbling to a stop next to where Legolas had collapsed, exhausted, his wound troubling him double-time after the exertion. The fox nuzzled his large companion gently, reassuringly, and the golden tail thumped on the ground in joy. 

             Celeborn sprang into the air, lifting into flight as if on wings, barreling into Galadriel with practically a scream of thankfulness at finding her alive and unscathed, the regal pair falling end over end with the force of his leap, her face soon covered with sloppy kisses of adoration. 

            Pippin trotted numbly through all of the death and suffering, his head hung low and his eyes strangely glassy, not feeling anything at all. He missed Merry, wished his older friend could be there to help him cope, to explain everything to him. But Merry was miles away. 

            Glorfindel was broken. His eyes could not tear away from Elladan's body, riddled with bullets, or Elrohir's lifeless form, slashed at the throat. He stood there trembling, a once-great alpha reduced to a bleeding wreck. His coat of golden fire had dulled to a flat yellow, his fur was matted and clumped. But worst of all, the flame in his eyes had gone out. 

            He was the sole surviving member of the Imladris pack. 

            A little head rested against his foreleg, and he glanced down to see Pippin rubbing his face against it, sighing deeply in loneliness and despair. Bending down, Glorfindel gave the Hobbit wolf a rough lick over the top of the head, the gesture of a father to his pup. 

            And all turned as one to where Elrond had fallen. 

            Aragorn was the first to reach him, dropping his head to touch noses with the Half-breed, urging a reaction from him, desperate for him to move, to breathe, to reassure them all that it was nothing serious. 

            In response, Elrond opened his eyes, his tail wagging in a weak effort to pretend that everything was all right. But the pain punched through his system like a sledgehammer, and he groaned, allowing his head to rest on the ground in defeat. His eyes, however, remained locked on Aragorn, speaking into his mind for undoubtedly the last time. 

            -Aragorn… I only wish our time together in victory could have been longer, that I might have lived to see you and my daughter run side by side as King and Queen… I place her in your care now; you are the only wolf I would trust with such a treasure. Take care of her, Aragorn. That is all I ask of you…-

            His breathing became rapid and erratic, hitching in his throat, his eyes fogging over so that his voice dropped to nothing but a whisper. 

            -The tundra is yours… your kingdom now. Rule well, my King. May the sun always shine on you, may the wind be at your back, and may you have good hunting for the rest of your days…-

            And in the rain, surrounded by the family he was pined for all his life, Elrond passed on, and his heart stopped beating, his feet striking a rhythm of eternity as he raced on to join Boromir in the stars. 

            Bitter was his passing that should endure beyond the ends of the world. 

            At last, Aragorn threw back his head and wailed in grief, and the others joined him also. The song was slow and painful, yet also sadly triumphant, for Elrond had lived to see the fall of the Hunter, and to see his daughter mated to the King. Yet no amount of singing could bring him back, until at last the requiem faded away…

            …into silence. 

~~~~~~ 


	28. Epilogue

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within. 

Author's Notes: This is a thank-you gift. Thank you, all of you who read and reviewed this story, all of you who took a chance with something so new and unusual. I wish I could thank all of you personally, but this is the best I can do. Thanks for sticking with me and waiting patiently for updates. To be honest, I'm really sad to see this story end. But it's been a great ride! This chapter is short, sweet, and full of love.

To all my reviewers—

Good hunting. 

EPILOGUE

~          

            The tundra stretches into eternity.

            Blue sky is the only thing that clarifies it from the green earth; otherwise the horizon seems to merge with the air. Enormous, billowing clouds drift lazily overhead, each a brilliant shade of white, puffy and peaceful. 

            Caribou rumble across the land, their bodies clumped together so that they are simply a mass of antlers and pounding hooves. Their low, mournful voices bellow the song of travel, and of spring, and of rebirth. 

            Gradually, a great bird can be seen gliding over the herd. Whiter than the clouds, wingtips stained black from the Balrog's fire, the mighty eagle gives a cry and lifts higher into the air, out over the open ground. 

            Gandalf, the spirit of the tundra. 

            An answering cry sounds, the scream of a second eagle. Rising into flight next to him, an entity black as the night sky, with eyes a flashing green. 

            Elrond, the spirit of the wolves.

            As Gandalf was reborn from the flames, so the warrior wolf lives on. A spirit too great and a heart too big to be lost from the world forever, so he returns to continue his service to the tundra. 

            Together, the pair soars across the land, wings barely moving as they coast on the warm spring air. 

            First they move north. Swooping low, they pass over what was once the territory of the Mirkwood pack. Famine has passed, and the earth has become fertile once more. And it is no longer barren of life. 

            The Naugrim have taken up residence here, leaving behind the brutal living conditions of the Paths of the Dead, they now race and hunt in the green, green territory. They rush to the hilltops and leap into the air, saluting the eagles that fly overhead. 

            Continuing their flight in a great arc, the two continue down through the land of Lorien. It is all but empty now; the once-great pack seems to have entirely died out. 

            But racing over the hill comes Celeborn and Galadriel, side by side, and behind them runs Haldir. The golden trio shoots across their tundra, preserving the legacy of the Elven wolves for years to come. They sing in joy as the eagles soar past.

            Cutting through Gondor territory, they stumble quite unexpectedly on Legolas and Gimli. Too restless to stay in one place, the duo has sworn to spend the rest of their days exploring and adventuring across the great, wide land. Although the wolf walks with a bit of a limp, the fox's legs are short enough that their paces are evenly matched. 

            Elrond dives low and plucks at Legolas' ears in a teasing motion, only to feel a nudge in the side as Gimli attempts to tackle him. The eagle barely remains airborne, and circles the pair briefly before flying onward. 

            The eagles glide through the Southern territories, calling their greetings to the Ents that thunder along below. Treebeard calls a –hoom, hom- to them in response. 

            Finally, the spirit of the tundra and the spirit of the wolves fly into the Shire. The land beneath them is a rich emerald, and the vegetation is lush and brightly colored. And at last, the pack comes into view. 

            Merry is the first to spot them, and he races under them, keeping pace, their shadows falling across his back. Then Pippin, who barks gleefully. A pup when the Quest started, Pippin is now a young adult, and next to him stands a pretty young she-fox, whom he nuzzles affectionately. 

            Bilbo and Gaffer raise sleepy heads and promptly go back to their napping. 

            Sam appears on the hill, his pace leisurely and relaxed. Behind him comes Rosie, and she stands at his side as the eagles go by. But both Gandalf and Elrond arc around for another pass, landing softly in the grass. 

            For at Sam's feet are three little pups, born a few weeks ago in the beginning of spring. Little Frodo, Boromir, and Elanor squint their eyes as the two great birds bend over to inspect them, though roguish Boromir swipes at them with one tufted paw. A warrior already. 

            Flapping their huge wings, the eagles take off again, flying for a short while before cresting low over a great, green hill. 

            Glorfindel raises his tired head, and his tail wags. Napping next to him, Frodo wakes and glances about sleepily. The exhaustion is gone from their eyes, replaced by a weary sense of relief and contentment. One of Frodo's ears is a mere rag from the mark of Gollum's teeth, and Glorfindel's body still bears the physical scars of battle. 

            But two tortured souls have found peace at last, in the Undying Land of the Shire. 

            So onward fly the eagles. 

            As they speed over the endless tundra, they can see the Great Pack, running full tilt to meet them. 

            Faramir and Eowyn lope at an easier pace together. He, too, has a slight limp from the bullet that hit him so long ago. She runs slowly for an entirely different reason, however; her slender form is now heavy with pups. They're due any day now, and her face glows with maternal pride. 

            Then comes Arwen, her beautiful black form also swelling with the promise of new life. She lifts her voice in a salutation to the eagles, and Elrond alights on her back for the most breathless of moments before continuing on. 

            For now comes Aragorn. His chest seems broader, his head held higher; truly here is the King that the tundra was waiting for. He runs with a proud and powerful gait, and when the eagles get close enough, he leaps into the air.

            His nose touches Elrond's with the barest brush of contact. 

            Then he takes off at a full speed gallop. Legs pumping rhythmically, the King darts across the land like a shooting star. The birds swoop to join him, and Elrond flies low over him, so from above it looks as though the black wolf has two great ebony wings. 

            Suddenly, they come to a sharp drop. No problem for the eagles, but Aragorn has to slam on the brakes, causing him to lurch backwards on his hind legs. Gandalf gives a warm cry of approval, so Aragorn holds the pose. 

            Rearing back, his ruff a cape and his voice a thunderous song of victory, the King of the Tundra paws at the air, the eagles circling tight around him. 

            And then they are gone, leaving Aragorn to land on all fours, breathless, heart swelling with pride and soul flying with them. 

            The white eagle and the black one drift higher into the sky, mere silhouettes against the vast clouds that seem to take shape into the form of one great wolf, racing across the sky and watching his kin. 

            Boromir runs on. 

            The rhythm of the tundra pulses with birth and death, shame and glory. It holds battles and warriors, romance and lovers.

            And though wolves will die and new ones shall take their place, the King of the Tundra will sit eternally on his throne, in memory and in song. 

            The circle of life is complete. 

            The voices of the wolves sing as one. 

~ THE END 


End file.
